


The Forgotten Fear

by thein273



Series: The Scarred Hero [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftermath of Torture, Amelia Heiman, Anxiety Attacks, Assassins & Hitmen, Betrayal, Canon Non-Typical Violence, Emily Richardson - Freeform, F/M, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Joe Guard, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Canonical Character Death, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Canon Compliant - The Last Olympian, Percy Jackson/OC - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Samantha Foster, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Torture, Trans Male Character, several of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 69,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thein273/pseuds/thein273
Summary: Six years ago, PERCY JACKSON lost everything he ever knew or vaguely understood. Now, the only thing of true value in his hollow existence is a little girl he stumbled across by accident, but once again, the gods shred what meager hope he has left and force him into a terrifyingly dangerous game: prove to them he can deny his fatal flaw and deceive those he held most dear, and he can abandon the life of a hero altogether and live out his days peacefully alongside his charge. Fail, and the world will end more spectacularly than anyone dreamed possible.However, as Percy struggles with his own secrets, ancient forces the Olympians dare not speak of begin to stir, and once again, it seems only he can save the world from a fate as terrible as his own...





	1. The God of War House-Crashes

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I am attempted to rewrite this story with some cohesiveness. I still love the whole world and its various potentials. I changed up more than a few plot threads to keep things unexpected. I missed getting your reactions to everything in this thing, so feel free to leave reviews. Constructive criticism and theories are welcome. I’ll ignore any unhelpfully harsh reviews; I wouldn’t bother if I were you.
> 
> Former fans (if any of you are still there), I hope this sates you.
> 
> Presenting, without further ado, the first installment of The Scarred Hero Trilogy.
> 
> (All rights go to Rick Riordan, Hyperion Books Inc., and other referenced copyright owners.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have attempted to rewrite this story with some cohesiveness. I still love the whole world and its various potentials. I changed up more than a few plot threads to keep things unexpected. I missed getting your reactions to everything in this thing, so feel free to leave reviews. Constructive criticism and theories are welcome. I'll ignore any unhelpfully harsh reviews; I wouldn't bother if I were you.
> 
> Former fans (if any of you are still there), I hope this sates you.
> 
> As a note someone mentioned, it isn't immediately apparent when this takes place. Suffice to say, The Giant War has not happened. Everything leading to this story happened immediately after The Titan War. For now, you don't have to read The Heroes of Olympus to understand the contents of this story, although it will spoil things from the series if you don't. Huge chunks of story will be changed, though. It's up to you what you want to do, but reading the companion stories to this or its sequels without reading Riordan's books is literary suicide. I hope I write it in such a way you wouldn't be totally lost.
> 
> Presenting, without further ado, the first installment of The Scarred Hero Trilogy.

IT STARTED ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH.

Dramatic, I know, but Zeus is my uncle, and he rubbed off on me after the fifteenth time deigning to respond to his summons. Besides, it isn't a false statement. August 13th marked the day I lost my life just before my eighteenth birthday, and after the excitement that proceeded it, I let it fade from memory. Contrary to what you would expect, it didn't connect to the date I needed to worry about every month, and it was such a generally unpleasant memory, I opted to forget it ever happened whenever possible.

Leave it to the first god I learned to hate to remind me of it.

The day started off well. I nudged my small charge—all right, I will grant you; age-wise, Sam wasn't  _small_ , but she was eleven and four-foot-three, poor little dwarf—with my foot, and she stirred in her sleeping bag to favor me with a large, annoyed brown eye hidden under shaggy, matted bangs.

I grinned at her. "Good morning," I said cheerfully. "Up n' at-um, kiddo; we've got another day of not getting eaten to get started on."

"I hope they have barbecue," she grumbled, "because I will taste very bad without." She rolled over to get some more rest.

I rolled my eyes, shot forward, and yanked her sleeping bag away. She dropped onto the ground from a grand total of a millimeter in the air but grunted like I'd kicked her off a five-story roof. She pushed upright to gape at me disbelievingly, and I merrily started rolling up her cot to tie it to our rucksack, whistling something upbeat and nameless. "You fu—"

I held up a finger with a stern look. "Uh-uh. No strong language until you're sixteen."

"I kill monsters on a regular basis!" she protested. "I'm pretty sure the f-word is the least of your worries, and who died and made you my father?"

I smirked. "Nobody," I said. "Your father technically can't die, unless the gods lose all favor and thrall over Western Civilization. He also isn't showing up to parent you any time soon, so I suppose that makes me your guardian." I ducked down and fastened her sleeping bag—the only one we had—to our large, heavy rucksack. I'd used it as a cushion for my sore back the night before, not that it offered any real comfort. My muscles creaked and whined like I abused them, which I did.

Sam muttered a few choice Creole words I knew put the worst sailors to shame, but unlike English profanities, I couldn't call her on them. She knew and savored that singular advantage over me, considering I not only dwarfed her in size but also abilities. I trained her in peacetime as best I could, but two powerful half-bloods on the streets attracted a lot of monstrous attention; our best survival tactic was constant motion.

Sam pushed up and pressed down her frizzy black hair, cut so short it looked like an afro. She hated the style, but it was hard enough to maintain without letting it get too long to tolerate. I thought it was cute.

I shouldered our rucksack and headed out into the street, keeping Sam and earning concerned looks from passersby. Unlike many cities I frequented—especially in New York—Staten Island mainly homed the sweeter, less belligerent folk. Sometimes, I had to look at them funny, because I came from Manhattan, where everyone was a raging a—sorry, jerk. I'd cleaned up my verbal language, but I still had to pull up short mentally. Sam thought I was ridiculous for being so adamant about not swearing in front of her, but my mother schooled me hard that—no matter how quickly I picked up profanity from my disgusting first stepfather—she didn't want me saying anything harsh around the younger crowd.

Even if I would never see her again, I wanted to do her proud.

A middle-aged woman watched her middle-schooler play football in the front yard from the porch and eyed Sam and me warily. I forgot myself a moment and smiled at her to assuage her worries. She blanched and ushered her son inside.

"People are such jerks," Sam said distastefully, rolling her eyes as another passerby glimpsed my distorted features and turned green.

I shrugged. "You weren't thrilled to see me at first, either, if I remember right."

She pouted, and I chuckled with a roll of my eyes, turning the corner and faltering a moment or two longer than I should have. Sam gave me a funny look, but I focused through the veil of illusion separating reality from perception. In my younger days, I sucked at spotting a well-disguised monster and frequently got my a—behind handed to me for lack of attentiveness. I'd since learned (thank you, Lady Hecate) how to turn a keen eye beyond the Mist and discern the normal from supernatural.

And she was definitely supernatural.

Her form flickered between a petite fashionista in a ruffled pink skirt to a heinous she-demon with flaming hair and mismatched legs—one solid bronze, the other matted with donkey fur. Ugh. At least most satyrs had the decency to maintain their hides. This just looked sad.

I tried to steer Sam across the street, but a reckless driver whipped around just before we could cross and almost ran us over. Sam cussed him out in Creole and stepped off the curb once the coast was clear, but it was too late.

The fashionista tapped me on the shoulder, and I buried my hand in my pocket, fingering my trusty weapon with a pleasant smile I hoped would unnerve her like it did the rest of the world. It didn't. "Hello," she said. "I'm sorry, but it looks like you two might be homeless. Would you like a warm place to rest, get some food? I live near here."

I swayed. Aphrodite tutored me as best she could on resisting something she called "charmspeak," a gift some of her children inherited from her. Servants and worshippers of Hecate could learn it with enough practice, as well, and  _empousai_ were faithful followers of their mistress, by and large. This one must have been old. None of my lessons wanted to help me here. I fought the compulsion as best I could, struggling not to give in to her power, but my resolve weakened the longer I looked at her sweet, kind face and angelic features. She might never be Annabeth, but Annabeth had always been a hopeless pipe-dream, anyway, hadn't she?

The  _empousa_ smiled at Sam, playing with her hair. "A darling little girl like you shouldn't wander around these streets. You need rest. Fresh clothes. A bath. Food."

Sam nodded.

The  _empousa_ offered her hand. "Come with me, darling. Everything will be okay if you trust me."

Sam reached for her hand, and my vision sharpened to show me black, bloodstained claws stretching toward her, my world, my angel—

—over my dead godsdamned body.

I shoved the she-demon back, acting as Sam's shield while I glared down the monster and waited for my companion to recover. "Nice voice," I sneered. "Why don't you use it on someone gullible?"

She hissed. "Damn heroes. You would have been a finer feast before the years spoiled you, son of the Sea God."

I glared. "More than just years spoiled me, demon. I'm in a magnanimous mood, so I'll let you walk away now. Challenge me, and I will destroy you."

"Would you?" she asked. "Would you damn a sweet young thing like myself to your terrible fate?" Her eyes flashed. "What if I ended up in chains, muttering that cursed rhyme for all eternity?"

I swallowed, ears filling with an old mockery of a child's rhyme. (One, _two, three and four, watch them crumple to the_  floor.) "I imagine you've killed enough half-bloods to deserve it."

She smirked. "It is only my nature," she told me. "Should your kind be sentenced to eternal damnation for killing so many monsters?"

"Don't play with me," I snapped, clenching my fist and ignoring the doubt festering in the pit of my stomach as I withdrew my unfailing weapon from my pocket. A complicated glamour disguised it as a pen whenever I had no need of it, and the power of the Mist shrunk it to a fraction its natural size. In my hand, it felt like your normal, thirty-cent piece of stationary. There were a million just like it in every office building.

Then again, I had the only one that could grow into a deadly, tapered short-sword forged from Celestial bronze and cooled in the Lethe itself.

I uncapped it. I required no adjustment as it lengthened, weighing down on my arm with its comfortable familiarity. The  _empousa_ recoiled, snarling at the legendary blade. A much more famous hero conned it off a friend of mine in days of old—Heracles, son of Zeus and history's biggest windbag.

"I buried this in the heel of the god of war when I was only twelve, demon," I warned her with a careful smile, sure to accentuate the cavern carved into my face. "It met Kronos' scythe blow-for-blow when I was fifteen. You know that. Leave now and save yourself for a less satisfying snack."

If I had been in a better mood, I might have matched wit with her. I used to be best known for my sometimes-ridiculous quips in the middle of battle. Some days, I still resorted to my favorite methods of talking the enemy's head around in circles. Her earlier taunts left me sore and displeased, however, so I decided to end the altercation sooner rather than later with a few useful reminders about who had the better track record in our little showdown.

She listened, walking away as her hooves transformed into petite stilettos and back again. I watched her go with a dark glare.

Sam gulped. "That's it?" she asked. "What about the next person she attacks? I don't think they get to claim, 'Ares is scared of me and I kicked a titan's ass,' Percy."

I blew the sprinklers in the next lawn at her. The water pressure smacked her into the middle of the street before a driver could react. The collision sent her bursting apart into a safe cloud of golden dust, and whatever alarm the mortal might have had disappeared when a sheet of Mist passed over them and made them forget the teenager ever landed in front of their vehicle.

"Let's keep moving," I said, capping Riptide and slipping back into my pocket. " _Empousai_ rarely travel alone."

Sam hesitated, but she didn't dally once I started moving.

~1~

When I spotted the  _For Sale_ sign on a beautiful green lawn, trimmed and mowed regularly to attract buyers, I started straight toward it. Sam sometimes chided me my illicit behaviors, like Grand Theft Auto and home invasion, but she learned a while ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth (as it might have Greek insurgents inside prepared to shoot you in the face)[1].

I fished a couple hairpins out of my pocket, inserting them into the lock and jiggling them around a few times until it clicked. I nudged it inside and tried the light-switch. Even homes on the market tended to have access to electricity, so the living room lit up without objection. Thankfully enough, it was one of the fully-furnished deals. Sam charged the love-seat in the middle of the room and spilled over the arm, landing face-first onto the cushions. I chuckled.

"Enjoying yourself?" I teased.

"Shuddup," she said, voice muffled by the pillows. "I can't remember the last time I laid on anything even resembling 'soft and comfy.'"

I smiled, reaching down to ruffle her dark mane on my way past. She sputtered with a few new Creole words I needed to learn.

I set our rucksack on the dining table, untying Sam's sleeping bag to recheck our inventory with less fuss.

Item #1: A ¾ empty canteen of nectar. I restocked on the stuff back in Wisconsin too long ago to remember, and with two potent half-bloods traveling the countryside on foot, our resources were going to run low faster than I would have liked. I sighed, hoping I could sweet-talk a god into helping me out. I didn't have another safe house I dared go near until Maine.

Item #2: Three first-aid kits with stitches, gauze, and anything else our travels might necessitate the use of. I sifted through each and made a mental note to hit a medical store to shoplift a few depleted supplies.

Item #3: A miniature calendar written, sadly, in English. I almost never forgot to rip off a month at its conclusion, though, and numbers didn't dance off the page like Latin letters liked to do. The only important part about it was the dates and the giant x's through each one. I pulled out Riptide, uncapped it, turned its lid to the hilt, and shrunk it into a real pen with luminescent molten ink. I crossed off August 13th without affording it any more consideration than most other days. A square behind it on the next line was marked with a massive gold circle: the 18th, my least favorite day of any month.

Item #4: Several changes of clothes, none of which resembled clean. If I could do more than rinse them off in convenient fountains, I would, but detergent or any kind of soap cost too much to splurge on. We made do.

Item #5: A variety of nonperishables, from disgusting, coagulated bits of canned muck to less unappetizing bags of beef jerky and the like.

Then finally, my most precious belonging, a final vestige of my past: a hardcover novel with a picture of a young girl reaching out to touch the globe as it spun, eyes their own miniature Earths. Simple but elegant script wrote out  _Daughter of the World_ below and above the art, a smaller, equally unremarkable  _Sally Jackson_ underneath that. My mother left it for me in my childhood vacation spot on Montauk Beach, to which I had not returned since fetching it before Poseidon could wreak untoward vengeance upon the bittersweet memories. I learned of it only a few months after my life came to its sticky and miserable conclusion, when I heard my stepfather's voice seconds before the whole scheme crashed down around my ears. I eavesdropped on them until I heard Mom leave me her last present, then the quiet car driving away from everywhere we might have known in a kinder world.

I suffered through its pages for a year and a half. Mom knew the best fonts to use for dyslexia from years helping me with my homework and insisted the printers take the learning disabled into consideration, but an English copy was still an English copy. I missed her too much not to read it, though, and I loved every word as much as I loved the woman who wrote them.

My right eye watered, but I blinked it away and started putting everything back into the backpack with a shake of my head.

I heard a frustrated yell behind me, whirling with Riptide expanded to its deadliest mode again, only to find Sam smacking the widescreen television set angrily. "C'mon," she whined at it. "I don't even know what shows are good nowadays. Entertain me, you dumb, useless—"

"Sam, it's not going to work until someone moves in and pays the first utility bill," I pointed out to her with a smile. "The lights only work because the realtor needs to be able to  _show_ potential buyers the space. Yelling at that thing will not yield the desirable results and you fumble with every piece of technology I've ever seen you touch. I have no doubt in my mind you are not a daughter of Hephaestus."

She huffed and crossed her arms. "I am  _so_ bored," she complained.

I rolled my eyes. "How's this? You settle down and get comfy while I wash off a few clothes and clean up. Then  _you_ get a bath, and when you're done, I'll tell you whatever story you want to hear."

Sam beamed. "Really? You  _never_ wanna talk about your past."

I smiled bittersweetly. "It's a good past," I told her. "Settle in."

The whole bathroom alternated between uninteresting shades of white. From the cream-colored walls and ceiling to the marble sink. Some interior decorator got carried away and put in a bath  _and_ a shower with a glass partition.

I tried turning on the facet, but no water greeted me. After a moment's hesitation and a paranoid glance around the bathroom, like anyone of note might be watching, I relented to the tug on my gut and summoned a stream from the tap. Using the bar of soap I carried around with me everywhere, I washed up as best I could. Shirking off my shirt, I tried to ignore the wretched scars curling up my stomach and back, the discoloration clustered over my body in all the worst places to remind me of times I would have gladly forgotten ever happened. I scrubbed off dirt, grime, and sweat, rinsing the washcloth under the water more times than might have been efficient; so much gunk had built up since the last quality bath I'd taken, though, that I had to make do. I avoided gazing into the mirror as much as I could, but I glimpsed my reflection out of the corner of my good eye. In a daze, I looked up and stared at it.

The dark, jagged lines curving up toward my ears from the corners of my mouth left a haunting visual of trauma long over. My nose sat crooked against my face, bent a few directions from its share of strong hits from everything ranging from meaty fists to two-by-fours. No other scars left the same mark as the one I had redefined myself with, conjuring a new identity from its recesses, a new life without the ghosts plaguing my old one. I traced it along my face, raised edges rough against my finger-pad.

It faded through a series of terrible colors. Stained bone could be seen peeking under bits of angry red and miserable purple, the sides shriveled to a soulless black without room for life, hope, or anything else worthwhile in an otherwise meaningless world. It gouged a path diagonally from the far left of my hairline down past my chin, flirting with my carotid artery. My eye suffered the worst damage from it, iris and pupil sliced down the middle and lacking the vibrancy and mirth it once sported.

Even the unhurt one had dulled and darkened until it better resembled the waters of the Black Sea than the Pacific. The rich tan I prided myself on in my youth—one of my few attractive qualities from days past—paled and turned sallow from the acid now flowing through my veins, simmering until that fateful day arrived and courted me with the oblivion of deceptive death. A death I would never know.

I closed my eyes and imagined, for a fragile moment, what I might have looked like in another life, a better life, where I had never known the emptiness of homelessness, the agony of such a terrible demise, the brokenness of unprecedented grief. I opened them on bright, glittering irises, shining with the energy of the sea and its deep, layered colors, frothy white interspersed with shades of green and shocks of blue. A few old abrasions littered a deeper complexion. My body better fit my broad shoulders, lean and defined with your classic swimmer's build, strong arms fortified by years training with the sword. I would have looked that way in reality if I knew how to get enough food to support that musculature. When the illusion dropped, it left me with the confused muscle that came from staying in excellent shape without the nourishment to back it up, somewhere between wiry and toned.

I washed our clothes as quickly as I could, fighting the depression that wanted to swallow me whole and never let me go. The water turned black in no time.

I threw my shirt back on. "Sam!" I hollered. "Bath time!"

She squealed with glee, and I smiled faintly. I turned off the sink, turning my powers to the bathtub and stopping it up. She skipped inside and I handed her a change of semi-clean clothes, her radiant smile banishing my miserable thoughts. I reminded myself of the comforting reality: in my perfect life, I never would have found Sam. She would have been killed long before ever reaching Camp Half-Blood and meeting me.

The Fates didn't let you cherry-pick your life, and knowing that, I could appreciate this existence. It gave me Sam. It gave me a deeper purpose my old self never would have imagined finding. I could live with that. I could be  _happy_ with that.

Right?

Sam enjoyed baths as much as I used to, but she never knew a life with consistent opportunities to take care of herself. I left her alone to soak and enjoy herself while I pulled out some beef jerky. Vomit-inducing chunks of unnaturally preserved soup could wait for a less fortunate day; we ate like royalty tonight.

I glanced up when I heard the bathroom door open. The water subdued Sam's black curls a little more, but I knew the frizz would only get worse the drier it got. She wore a giant smile on her face as she skipped over in her favorite shirt:  _I'd Be Less Afraid of the Law and More Afraid of My Big Brother if I Were You._ I shouldn't have caved to buy her that article of clothing when we hit out in that Walmart, but when she explained how she wanted something proclaiming to the world how scary I could be when I wanted to protect her warmed my heart too much.

I had another sister, less honorary than Sam. Years after my false death, my parents made the decision to take in a needing child. That lucky orphan had been Chelsie Seegers, now Chelsie Blofis. Only four when they took her in, they had no way of knowing she had been anything but mortal, but her obvious ADHD must have reminded Mom of me. Hades had been kind enough to tell me about her. I kept as close an eye on my family as I could afford, even risking too much once or twice to get a closer look.

Thank Tyche I did, because I saw a Lastrygonian giant chatting up a lonely Chelsie in front of her preschool on the rare day Paul didn't make it to pick her up in time. She had no idea the danger she was in. Needless to say, I cut the Canadian cannibal down. I explained to her she had to tell her parents a monster sought her out and attacked her. They only did that to half-bloods. Then I left her with a knife and vanished before anyone from my past stood a chance of recognizing me.

I shook off the memories and opened my arms for Sam. She curled up against my side with a pleased hum, head resting over my chest. "What do you want to hear about?" I asked, combing out a few more tangles from her hair.

She grinned at me, her missing front tooth making her twice as adorable. "Maybe one of the times you kicked some jerk's a—" I arched an eyebrow. "—butt?"

I laughed a little. "Ares?" I offered.

She nodded energetically.

"Well, it all started on this field trip in Sixth Grade…"

~2~

I hadn't even started explaining the Lotus Hotel and Casino when Sam started snoring against me. I tried to stay conscious and keep watch, but my eyes drooped with exhaustion and I leaned back for what I hoped to only be a couple minutes.

However long I did fall asleep, it was too long, because I woke up to a cool metal barrel pressed between my eyes.

They shot open and I met icy blue eyes. White-blond hair hung around his pale features while he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Really?  _This_ is Emily's cleverest mark? I didn't even have to sneak to get in here."

That name stopped me, and I shook Sam awake. She cried out and bolted forward, only to freeze when she saw the pistol poised to spray my brain matter over the nice cushions.

She whimpered. "Who are you?"

He grinned, pulling out a business card from his pocket and flipping it out to her. She took it tentatively. "It's in Ancient Greek," she said, surprised.

"Got a few Latin ones, too," he said, smirking, "but it's easier for you lot to interpret that language."

Sam glanced at me. "It says his name is Robin Whittaker, and he…" Her eyes widened. She choked. "You  _kill people_?"

"What, you think the gun's a prop?" He snorted.

"Emily won't be very happy if you pull that trigger," I warned him. "She's got some special plans for me."

His eyes hardened like spires of ice. "Emily's courting disaster," he snapped. "Certain people want you very dead, but she's not one of them. You keep drawing breath…" He chuckled and shook his head. "Let's just say it'd cause more trouble than it's worth."

"Trust me," I said, "she wants me dead.  _And_ she wants to be the harbinger. Take her juicy revenge away from her,  _you'll_ be the next one on her list."

He shook his head. "Emily's the least of your problems, lover-boy," he told me. "I'm just nice enough to take you off the battlefield before shit gets ugly."

"Don't cuss around Sam," I said without thinking.

He let a frosty eyebrow climb into his hairline. "Of all last words," he said.

Which was the exact moment a Harley roared through the window with a spray of sharp glass and smacked into Robin's face, dropping him to the ground.

The biker laughed victoriously. I glared at him as he killed the engine and propped his motorbike on the ground. His leather duster looked bulky over his bulletproof vest. Sam growled next to me, clenching her fists, but I'd gotten used to his aura. He couldn't bait me into stupid comments or infuriated attacks anymore. I held Sam still with a hand pressing her shoulder into the couch.

"What do you want, Ares?" I demanded.

Sam sputtered in alarm and gaped at me.

Ares snorted. "Typical you, Jackson. I save your ass against an assassin; your first question is  _why_. No gratitude. That attitude's gonna get you re-dead one o' these days."

"Watch your language around Sam," I said, containing my urge to attack him.

He arched an eyebrow. "Really? As if I'm afraid of you."

"Didn't he help you do an Achilles impersonation a few years back?" Sam taunted with a sneer.

I tried to shoot her a silencing look, but Ares snorted. "By  _cheating._ Little shit went and used the water on me. It was dishonorable. If he beat me the right way, I never would have cursed his sword."

That almost tipped me over the edge. I took a deep breath. "You wouldn't be here unless you had business, Ares, and it wasn't to save our lives.  _What do you want_?"

He rolled his eyes. "You got an Olympian summons, kid. Half the council's gonna be there to tell you whatever they want this time, but there's a juicy civil war over in Africa I gotta get a good seat on 'fore the other war gods take all the good spots, so I won't be there to see you get almost killed—again."

I clenched my fists. "I told Zeus a  _million_ times, I don't do quests any—"

"Your dad said you got special interest in this one," he told me. "'Sides, the date's kinda appropriate to remind you, considering."

I faltered, eyeing him distrustfully and pulling Sam against my side. "What are you talking about?"

Ares smirked. "Oh, you know. Albany, the safe house..."

(A _massive, bloodshot eye stared down at me, giant foot kicking me over, a piercing agony shooting through my back and spreading through my body like acid, leaving me to die slowly, choking on tears, begging for help no one could offer as my enemies laughed and darkness claimed me, pulling me through a mindless procession, into an elevator with a suit, across a river, past the three-headed dog, to the front of the line before three ghostly judges, and then a sharp tug, a hopeless tumble through nothingness until my ears filled with screams and laughter, my skin blistered, and my hope shriveled and died in an inescapable prison._ )

Sam shook me. "Percy?" I heard her calling. "Percy!"

I lurched back to the present with a gasp, looking around with my hand shooting toward Riptide. It took me a moment to recognize my surroundings: the suburban home Sam and I broke into for a decent night's rest, Sam's wide, fearful, concerned eyes, and even Ares' balls of fire, quelled somewhat while he studied me, holding his red-tinted sunglasses.

I covered up my embarrassment with a growl. "How long do I have?"

Ares seemed to think about it. "Well…it's got somethin' to do with that monthly  _dilemma_ you've gotta deal with, so not long."

My eyes widened. "I'll be there soon."

"And he shows some brains." Ares hopped back onto his bike. "See you 'round, 'savior.'" He laughed and gunned the bike forward, bursting into a spire of flames just before colliding with the front door and leaving a trail like the one in  _Back to the Future._

Sam relaxed and sighed. "What monthly dilemma?" she asked.

I shook my head. "A bad one." I looked at her. "Ready to see the home of the gods?"

Appropriately, she gulped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The phrase "don't look a gift horse" in the mouth confused me for many years, as I knew the Trojan Horse had been a ruse by the Greeks to ransack Troy and a cursory glance inside its maw might have saved many lives. It turns out the phrase actually originated from the practice of giving people real horses as presents, and the fact you can glean a horse's age by the shape and protrusion of their teeth. Still, I doubt Percy ever paused long enough to learn that piece of information, and he would be one of the most likely people to think the saying had something to do with the Trojan Horse. I found the aside amusing. That would be your dose of unnecessary information for the day, ladies and gentlemen.


	2. Why Gods Are Jerks, Reason #2871

SAM AND I WASTED NO TIME MAKING A BEELINE FOR MANHATTAN.

I dodged Sam's more persistent questions about this whole affair the entire way. She knew the contempt I held against the Olympian Council could topple skyscrapers; only serious problems hoped to convince me to answer a summons. She'd glimpsed my handheld calendar a couple times and asked about the date I always circled. She joked about me secretly being transgender and on my period, which I entertained to keep her from getting too suspicious about the real reasons. I never took my new, monthly lifeblood in front of her, and I always took it before things got critical. If a really bad day rolled around to complicate matters, I practiced the mental exercises Athena (AKA: my conceited almost-mother-in-law who helped ruin my life) showed me. The only parts of my grim condition I couldn't protect her from were the stupid flashbacks and nightmares, but she never dug too deep. She didn't like the dark look I always wore if she poked too many sensitive places.

Now, though, Ares said all the wrong things. She was worried. I explained the bare bones of my unfortunate and tragic conundrum; she knew the world believed Percy Jackson to be a skeleton somewhere, maybe even ash, but as far as she understood, I'd never faced a true death. Ares' loose lips called that assumption into question. I did my best not to lie to her, but if she didn't let this go, I would have no choice.

Two days later, Sam and I weaved through rush-hour foot traffic along 8th Avenue. I had no trouble navigating the belligerent locals, wearing variations on workplace chic and scowling layman, one hand latched onto Sam's shoulder to keep her close while she struggled to survive the least forgiving city she had ever stepped foot in.

" _Ugh_!" Sam cried in frustration. "What is  _wrong_ with this city?"

I looked at her, slightly amused. "Sam, I'm a New Yorker."

She grunted. "Yeah? What's your point?"

I laughed outright at that. "Do you really think  _anywhere_ but Jerks, USA could raise someone like  _me_?"

She didn't grace that with a response.

Turning one more corner and hurrying down a couple more blocks, we arrived at the doors of the towering grey skyscraper with more windows dotting its façade than I cared to ever count (Annabeth probably had the exact number memorized). I glimpsed a jerk drop a cigarette bud into one of the potted bushes along the street, still glowing red at the tip. My eyes widened. I could practically hear my best friend, a satyr named Grover Underwood, screaming in hysterical panic in my mind. I afforded a tiny bit of moisture to kill the heat before it sent the plant up in flames, then quite a bit more underneath the culprit to make his path a little too slick. He slipped and spilled backward with a scream.

Sam looked over as a Good Samaritan stopped to check on him. I eyed the exchange to make sure I hadn't just messed the guy up, but there was no blood and all he could do was scream belligerently at the woman for getting in his face.

I walked Sam through the doors with the gold letters for  _EMPIRE STATE_ above them. She gaped at the glossy interior and the long hallway of polished stone leading to the front desk and mosaic of the building behind it. I beamed when I recognized the uniform behind it, talking to—

I cursed in Ancient Greek, pushed Sam off to the side, and snapped my fingers. My hair turned brown, my eyes bright blue, my scars vanished, and I looked anything but homeless. I pushed Sam into the lobby store and preoccupied myself with pretending to admire the available t-shirts.

Sam arched an eyebrow at me. "I'm pretty sure you've lost your mind for  _real_ this time," she said.

I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. "I wish," I murmured. "Did you see that blonde talking to the security guard?"

Sam shrugged. "What about her?"

" _That_ was Annabeth Chase," I said. Her eyes widened. "Yep, that one. One of the few people from my past who could crack me like a peanut with her  _eyes._ The only other one I'm as terrified to run into is my mother."

"What is she  _doing here_?" Sam demanded, glancing at the window fearfully. I tapped her shoulder with a pointed look, and she joined me in not-admiring the merchandise.

"She's the official Architect of Olympus," I said, shaking my head. "I should have realized she could easily be here. Whatever the gods want me for had better be  _really_ good to get me that close to a total cataclysm."

Sam squeezed my hand. "She didn't see you," she reassured me. "You covered yourself like you always do. It's okay."

We both knew it wasn't, though. Near-misses like that could cost everything.

I didn't dare check outside for thirty minutes. By the time I did, Annabeth had disappeared long-since. I breathed a sigh of relief and led Sam to the brunette veteran sitting behind the desk, looking at me with a badly suppressed smile.

"Your  _face_ ," they said without sympathy.

"Shut up," I told them. "Somebody could have mentioned Annabeth was dropping by for new designs."

They shrugged. "Nobody knew. She likes to surprise the grunts with visits to make sure none of them are slacking off or shaving off corners on her designs. It turned out to be good timing, though; Aphrodite had  _another_ complaint about her hundredth altar. She may have prevented the Great Fashion Crisis of 2015."

I laughed. "Jess, this is Sam. Sam, Jess."

Sam offered her tiny hand, which Jess shook without question. "Nice ta meet ya," they drawled casually. "Who's your godly parent?"

Sam frowned, withdrawing her hand. "I, uh…I'm just eleven. I don't know yet. It's my dad, though."

"Maybe you got a cool one," she said. "There's a couple of those."

"I just hope it's not an Olympian," Sam muttered, leaning against me. I didn't have the heart to point out to her that, as strong as her scent seemed to be, it  _had_ to be one of the Olympians or Hades. While I liked Hades now that I understood him better, his children never had very good luck.

Jess sighed, reaching under the desk and pulling out a keycard with a laurel wreath stamped onto it. They handed it to me. "You know the drill by now."

I nodded. "Thanks, Jess." I steered Sam toward the elevator. No one tried to climb on with us, making life easier. I slipped the keycard into the security slot, pressed the red button labeled  _600_ , and tried not to short-circuit the speakers playing Barry Manilow.

After a few minutes, Sam looked at me, chewing her lip. Anxiety rolled off her in waves. "Percy?" she started tentatively. "I-I know the gods are…well, Ares wasn't very nice. Do you think they might…?"

I studied her face, realizing too late what quiet fear I'd let fester in the back of her mind since explaining a fraction of my history to her. I softened and knelt in front of her, hand cupping her cheek. I smiled. "The gods are selfish," I admitted, "and they're beyond power-hungry, but they have no reason to think you might be a threat to them. They won't touch you, and if they try, nothing can stop me from tearing apart their empire."

Sam frowned. "You'd attack them for me?" she asked. "But after everything you did to save—"

"I fought Kronos for Camp Half-Blood, Sam," I told her, smoothing her hair. "I gave up everything for Camp Half-Blood. I stopped doing things for the sake of Olympus itself long before the gods ever turned on me."

She shook her head. "You're so strong and powerful and good," she said. "Why would they do this?"

I hung my head. ( _"All twelve of us agreed we could not allow an upstart like you to continue sewing discord among your_  brethren.") I met Sam's eyes again with a regretful smile. "Poseidon told me something, the first time I came here," I began. "'The sea does not like to be restrained.' I don't know if I would have been a different person, if I'd been born something besides a son of Poseidon, but that always fit me. I didn't know how to be a good little hero, always doing what the gods wanted, never speaking up when I didn't agree with a stupid decision or another. That kind of…that kind of  _impertinence_ is dangerous to a setup like this. The Olympians thought someone like me…they thought I might start a new revolution, one with nearly all of Camp Half-Blood rather than just a couple bad eggs."

Sam's eyes widened. " _What_?" she demanded. "That's insane! And I'm pretty sure it's a self-fulfilling prophecy, because now you—"

"I'm going to stop you right there," I said sternly. "Sam, the gods are bad. They're so high off power, they don't know how to come down. But the alternatives? We're talking things like Kronos—you know, the guy who  _ate his own kids_ because he was worried they would overthrow him?—and his mom." My eyes filled with the inhuman wraith of alabaster skin, midnight veins, and voids for eyes, but he wasn't something I could ever tell Sam about.

Sam frowned. "His mom?"

I whistled. "Yeah. Gaea." I nodded a little. "Nowadays, people tend to think of Mother Earth like this sweet caretaker of nature, but the Gaea of Greek Mythology had some issues she could have used therapy for. Her first husband, Ouranos, hated his kids so much he shoved them back into her womb. She plotted with them to overthrow him. Kronos had been the youngest—that seems to be a theme—and she gave him that sickle I told you about to cut him up. But Kronos ended up as paranoid about threats to his power as Ouranos had been, so Gaea helped the gods overthrow  _him._ But when Olympus did the sensible thing and tossed all enemy Titans into—" I swallowed back a ball of bile trying to bubble up in my throat. "—into Tartarus, she mated with the Pit to create a race of giants, each in direct opposition to a god. That war almost toppled Zeus' regime completely."

Sam frowned. "Gaea sounds like a good mom, though," she said. "She sounds like the only one who did anything right."

I considered. "Those last children I told you about, the giants—they were as bloodthirsty as they could come, and Gaea  _encouraged_ that. She wanted the entire world to pay for the crimes she thought Zeus committed, even though, at that point, he hadn't done nearly so many terrible things. Having her in charge would be  _worse_ than being ruled by either Kronos or Zeus. Think about it, Sam: how good is someone whose only drive is to  _mother_ going to be at running the world?"

Sam sighed and crossed her arms. "Well, then maybe somebody better'll come along at some point and  _they'll_ set things right. I just don't like the idea of a bunch of overpowered jerks ruling the cosmos."

I shrugged. "I wouldn't hold my breath, but maybe."

The elevator doors dinged. Barry Manilow stopped playing as they slid open upon a familiar sight. Millions of feet below us, Manhattan sprawled with its bustling commuters and impatient cars, honking at the congestion clogging up the roadways like that could make any difference to how fast they got somewhere. A marble staircase wove up around a cloud, stopping where the transplanted ethereal Mount Olympus began. The geographical landmark hadn't moved, of course, but the gods chose to keep its spirit alive with a similar façade, the snowy peak speckled with elaborate mansions for the millions of minor gods and goddesses who lived here. I recognized a few telltale signs of Annabeth's brilliance in their designs; traditional Greek structures meeting practical modern ingenuity in a sweet-spot only she could conceive, befitting each immortal beyond even their sphere of influence, but also their personalities.

I glanced down at Sam and smiled. She stared at the paradise with the same expression I'd worn when I had been about her age, entering the heart of Western Civilization for the first time to avert civil war. I almost forgot I had an apocalypse to avert when I laid eyes on it, and in my opinion, it had been a little less awesome back then, what with having no patented Annabeth Chase flair yet.

I nudged her forward, keeping a hand on her back to encourage her up the steps onto the peak. Annabeth kept the general layout the same, giving most of the mountain room to advertise various divine wares. A few helpful places sold ambrosia and nectar, even things like unicorn draught, which I had never tried. I didn't get carried away, leaving the shopkeepers with a couple drachmas and tucking our replenished stores safely away in our rucksack. Sam ogled a replica of the Golden Fleece, and I ignored the twinge of sadness in my chest when I saw it and thought of the original, hanging off a branch on Half-Blood Hill where I could never see it again. I steered her away, making sure she took no steps toward the Hephaestus-patented inventions sold almost everywhere you looked or Aphrodite's Magic Makeover Kit or Hermes' Guaranteed Mischief-Makers. Anything with the seal of approval from a god could take an unfortunate trip into the bowels of my least favorite place, as far as I was concerned.

I waved at the Muses, playing a festive concert in the park, and fought to keep Sam on the straight-and-narrow when she overheard the gorgeous chords. After an inconvenient quest for Apollo a little while back, I developed a certain degree of resistance to divine music, but I hurried to clear out of earshot before my better willpower collapsed.

I led Sam into the main palace at the summit. No sooner did we clear the threshold than I pushed on her shoulder to make her kneel. She didn't question it, sinking to her left knee and facing the bigheaded man of the house himself, Zeus.

His pinstripe suit looked crisp on his gargantuan form, towering with the might only a god could produce. Beside him, looking as surfer chic as ever in his gaudy tropical shirt and Hawaiian shorts, was Poseidon. He smiled at me affectionately, but I ignored him. The youthful woman resting a perfect hand on Zeus' arm had chosen her preferred form, a teenager with a chestnut braid and warm eyes, porcelain face, dressed in a beautiful, shimmery white chiton, a traditional dress draped over her just so with sleeves draped halfway down her upper-arms. Despite the warm brown color of her irises, her face reflected no lack of coldness and unconcern.

The radiant blond looker with the killer-watt smile must have programmed his sunny Maserati to do the rounds all by its lonesome. The silver throne beside him sat empty like it almost always did, and I suppressed the bout of melancholy I felt at the memory of my good friend, Thalia, running around the countryside with her fellow Hunters and patron, Artemis. A couple thrones down from him, the Olympian I found least objectionable out of any of them, a malformed Hephaestus, nodded to me in respect. I already knew Ares wouldn't be present, but his girlfriend, Aphrodite, waggled her fingers flirtatiously at me. Her smile fell when I rolled my eyes. Finally, the immortal who most scared me eyed me with her usual, unreadable grey stare, reminding me too much of Annabeth with her honey-blonde curls.

Zeus scowled at me. "You teach the girl to kneel before her superiors, yet you yourself cannot be bothered to exercise such sense?" he demanded.

"Brother—" Poseidon started to pacify, but I knew how to handle my uncle. Hades had given me more than enough useful advice for that.

I smiled icily. "With all due respect, my liege, Sam has not quested dozens of times for each person in this room, thwarted a few wars, helped  _end_ the Second Titanomachy, or been stripped of everything she ever knew and loved by the people present here. She needs to acknowledge your supremacy. I know there is no supremacy to acknowledge."

Zeus' eyes flashed with miniature storms. "How  _dare_ —?"

"Your anger cannot assuage his contempt, Father," Athena interjected calmly. "The boy is not wrong. Our decision did sentence him to this nomadic existence he lives now. My daughter still grieves his alleged loss, although I may never understand why."

 _Because you don't understand anything but numbers and logic, you cold-hearted monster_ , I thought, but I didn't say anything.

"That being said," Athena continued, turning back to me, "I think I just heard you advising your young charge on the futility of toppling this regime. Someone so inspired to defend Olympus against worse tyrants might deem it fit not to incur our wrath with pigheaded demonstrations of arrogance."

My smile turned edged. "Need I remind you, Lady Athena, that our agreement prohibits me from ever entering a battlefield in Olympus' name again? I may not wish to see your gorgeous new thrones trashed like they were six years ago, but I have no stake in getting on your good side in case I need assistance in a fight."

I didn't miss the pointed way Poseidon glared at Hera when I said that, as if trying to draw attention to some oversight of hers, but Hera pretended not to notice him while I filed the exchange away into the back of my mind for later use.

"That's enough chastising the lad," Hephaestus said, voice deep. "We have business to attend to."

Zeus didn't stop glaring at me. "Hebe!" he called.

A five-year-old girl ran up with a goblet outstretched toward him.

He growled and smacked it out of her hand. "Honestly, you have not been the cup-bearer for a couple millennia now. Take the child and keep her entertained."

Sam faltered, her head shooting up to look at Zeus at last. "What? But…Lord Zeus, I—"

"You will go with my daughter, girl," he said. "Do not exercise your guardian's lack of sense by challenging my authority."

I clenched my fist, especially when Sam recoiled under his booming voice. Of all the Olympians, Zeus should understand the effects an upbringing like hers had, but he threw his weight around the same way he did the rest of the time.

( _Do it_.  _You can feel it, can't you? Blood is not so different from water, and ichor is just golden blood. Show him what happens to people who anger you. Teach him a lesson even his long life cannot help him forget._ )

That voice—a sultry man's—continued coaching me, encouraging me to pull on the spring running up the side of the mountain to flood the throne room and exercise my powers in new, immoral ways to take my revenge. Behind it, a million more murmured their own desires, but they washed together into an irreconcilable din.

I swallowed and did everything I could to contain myself, even as my muscles started twitching and my self-control thinned.

Then something surprised me. "Treat the girl with the respect you want to be shown, brother," Poseidon snapped. He turned to Sam. "Please, Samantha, I think you might be happier with Hebe for the moment. It won't be long before you see my son again."

Sam hesitated and glanced at me. Afraid I wouldn't be able to fight the compulsions much longer, I forced a smile and nodded her along. Hebe led her out back to Olympus Proper.

The roar in my head grew louder, until a sharp reprimand brought it screeching to a halt. "Jackson!" Hera barked. My head shot up. "Mind yourself. That madness of yours might yet get the best of you."

I gritted my teeth. "Maybe if you  _did something about it_ instead of—"

"Son, please," Poseidon said. I glared at him, eye twitching. He sighed with a remorseful shake of his head. "The madness comes, in large part, from the Pit itself. No immortal besides Tartarus himself has any true power there. Dionysus can only do so much to reverse the effects. You know that."

I growled. "You know, if I had a  _life,_ I might be able to get medication for it. But  _no_ , you need me starving on the road, too weak and insane to even mouth off to you."

Zeus snorted. "Clearly not," he muttered.

I roared, anger bursting out. The spring tugged on my gut, about to explode toward the newest object of my rage, but Poseidon waved his hand and it died. I collapsed to the marble floor, panting.

"You  _dare_ attack—?"

"We cannot hold him accountable for his actions in this state," Hera said neutrally, patting her husband's hand. "Especially with the poison strengthening in his system."

I lifted my head to look at her, shaking my head. "Ares…Ares said it had something to do with that," I said breathlessly. "What's going on?"

"Recent developments have prohibited any gods from stepping foot in the Garden of the Hesperides," Zeus said, "but Hecate requires concentrate from those apples to synthesize your antidote. Without it, it cannot counteract the effects of your poison."

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. "Then…then make sure…make sure Sam gets to Camp Half-Blood. Safely." I swallowed. "And don't let her see me when…"

"Oh, Percy," Aphrodite said, speaking up for the first time. Usually, she talked the most of any of the gods. It surprised me to realize she'd been silent this entire time until just now. "We have no intention of letting the Pit reclaim you. You, however, must retrieve the Apples of Hesperides and bring them to us."

I looked at her in disbelief. "And I thought I was crazy," I muttered. "Mount Orthys is on the opposite side of the country. Demigods aren't supposed to go anywhere  _near_ the Bay Area because of how dangerous that place is. I can't bring Sam near that place. I won't. Besides, I wouldn't even  _make it_ to Marin Country before the eighteenth, let alone get back in time—"

"I convinced your uncle to make an exception, considering the severity and urgency of your situation," Poseidon said quickly. "We will transport you directly to Mount Orthys. When you touch the ocean below, I will bring you back here. It can all be done inside a day."

I locked my jaw. "Why do I have to do this? What's stopping you from doing it yourselves when that's obviously been the case every time before?"

"Would you rather die a slow and agonizing death before returning to the Pit for all eternity, Jackson, or get us what we require to save your worthless hide?" Zeus demanded angrily.

I clenched my fist and pushed up to my feet. "Fine," I said. "Get it over with."

A column of frothy white seawater erupted around me, and then I tumbled through nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to think of a way to incorporate it into the story without interrupting the flow of the chapter, but I couldn’t. The security guard Percy and Sam talk to at the beginning is nonbinary, hence the pronoun usage, and I couldn’t think of any way to convey they were biologically female in the narrative without disrespecting their gender identity to a certain extent. Jess is a minor character. They will only pop up a couple of times more, if ever again.
> 
> That should answer a few questions about what happened to Percy to start him on this new lifestyle, although the rest of the bare skeleton will be explained in this upcoming chapter.
> 
> Also, I hope I did a reasonable job of still making Gaea the bad guy she is in the original myths and Riordan’s story while applying modern logic to her. Riordan did the necessary thing and just didn’t bother going into any great depth about her overall history, just her position as mother to the Titans and giants. With those children as her list of achievements, you can easily see her in a negative light, but when you read the myths directly, they’re more than a little sexist. Gaea is bad because she’s a woman who got defensive of her children. At least, those are the only myths I could find. I have no idea how to get my hands on The Theogony or any other semi-original texts for it, so I’m afraid we will have to make deal with that. If someone has a more accurate understanding of the whole matter that might help me write that explanation, feel free to leave a review of it and I will happily edit things accordingly.


	3. I Lose a Lost Love Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any still exist, old fans will remember my unceasing obsession with an eclectic assortment of music, especially when it comes to finding fitting songs and themes for each of my characters. I listened to the “White Rabbit” cover by J2 while writing especially the latter part of this chapter. I recommend you listen to that anyway, as well as the original by Jefferson Airplane. It’s a spectacular piece of music in my opinion.

THE FROTH CLEARED, dropping me into the middle of a beautiful garden. Flowers bursting with fragrance and intensity surrounded me. The grass glittered silver under the perpetual twilight blanketing the mountaintop. Black stone reflected my own scarred features back at me, paving up into a split and then curling around the legendary apple tree I'd come to pick, surrounding a massive dragon with a hundred heads that set my blood boiling in remembrance of the friend I'd lost on this mountaintop, partly to that monster's deadly claws.

In the distance, I could hear Atlas grunting under his great burden. I reached up to play with the strand of black hair that used to reflect grey, eyes closing when I remembered the searing pain shooting through my veins when I labored under the sky myself. If I didn't hate Atlas even more than I hated the gods, I might feel sorry for him. He earned his fate when he threw his daughter and killed her, though.

I started toward the tree carefully. I knew two variations on Heracles' Eleventh Labor from mythology: one, where he used his superhuman strength to strangle all one hundred of Ladon's heads. In another, he made a deal with Atlas to send him to pick the tree of its fruit, taking the sky from him for a time, only to trick him into taking it back before he could abandon him to it, leaving him to struggle for millennia more. The truth was some mixture of the two with an even darker reality: Heracles never could have completed his Eleventh Labor without the help of an unnamed Hesperid, the now-late Zoë Nightshade, but he never acknowledged her for his accomplishments. Her family turned on her as a traitor and banished her from the garden. She learned to hate all men as consequence of Heracles' betrayal, becoming one of Artemis' most trusted Hunters until her loyalty to the goddess cost her life.

I crouched just beyond the tree, breathing too softly to be heard. All one hundred dragon heads snored, but if I wasn't quiet, he would wake, and I'd have a serious problem on my hands. Once upon a time, I might have been less cautious going into this showdown; just before my sixteenth birthday, I bathed in the River Styx to receive the curse of invincibility, but since then, certain tragedies led to a restoration of my naturally vulnerable skin. Ladon could kill me as easily as anyone else.

I had to play on my strengths. Heracles used his ruthlessness and physical prowess to complete his task before, but I had neither quality (nor did I want them). Turning to Atlas for aid was well out of the question. First off, he would never believe anything I had to tell him with our history; secondly, I hated him. I'd rather return to the Pit than ask for his help in anything.

I had an idea that could work, but the mere thought of the drain it would put on my reserves chilled me. This was enemy territory. If the Hesperides found me trespassing on their garden, they would bring me under their spell or kill me in revenge for my earlier transgressions against them. If I couldn't even stand because I'd exhausted myself, I would be easy prey for them.

Then I heard melodic voices wash over the garden. My mind clouded with the Ancient Greek lyrics, and I would have understood them if I hadn't already fallen too deep into the spell. I swayed as the air rippled around me. Four raven-haired girls with dark, flawless skin surrounded me, hands dancing over my arms, down the back of my head. I tried to resist, vaguely aware I had to get those apples, but I couldn't think about anything but their inviting lips and enchanting song.

One of them leaned close to my face while her sisters continued to sing. "Thee must be weary, hero," she said, voice silky and luxurious against my ears. "It is high time thee slept away his burdens."

My eyes drooped. My limbs turned to lead. I shook my head weakly. "No," I murmured drowsily. "No, I have to—"

"Shush," she consoled, stroking my face. Her face changed, lightening in a beach-side tan with golden hair. When she spoke again, her voice was different. "Only you would tell me you can't sleep, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth said affectionately. "This is your cabin at Camp Half-Blood. There's no better place  _to_ sleep."

The garden washed away, turning the flowers into blue walls with cloudy white sponge spots all over them, like the illusion of being inside the sea. My little brother's sea anemones and underwater plants decorated the space in gorgeous vases. Small clay figures of  _hippocampi_ hung from the ceiling on wires. I smiled up at them, then looked at Annabeth and stopped.

I frowned. "No," I said. "No, you can't—you can't know who I am. Hera, the gods, they made me leave. I swear I didn't want to. They made me—"

"Hey," Annabeth consoled, cupping my cheek. "Hey, it's okay. That was just a nightmare. The gods never did anything. You're safe. You're at camp. Nothing is going to hurt you. I promise. Do you trust me?"

I swallowed and nodded. "I-I never got to tell you. Before they made me leave. I never got to tell you I love you."

She chuckled. "I know, Percy. I love you, too." Then she kissed me, and I fell into darkness.

~1~

I woke up, mind fuzzy, and tried to clear it. I had something important to do. I didn't have much time. Something bad would happen if I failed. Try though I might, I couldn't remember whatever quest I had this time. Reality didn't add up. I felt trapped between two worlds: one, where I enjoyed another vacation to Camp Half-Blood with Annabeth enjoying the honeymoon period with me, and another, terrible fate where the gods stole everything from me and sent me on the run from the people I should have run toward. My mind wouldn't let me figure out which was true.

I groaned and held my head, choking on a dry sob of frustration. A soft hand touched the top of my head, and I heard beautiful singing again. I started to panic. Voices like that only came from sorceresses and evil immortals. She wanted to pull me back under a spell I would never escape. I had to—

Then my mind cleared. For the first time in four years, the only voice in my mind was my own. I knew reality. The gods had banished me. They sent me to the Garden of Hesperides to collect the Golden Apples of Immortality to complete the antidote I needed to take once every month, or a poison killed me and pulled me back into the Pit. I didn't have much time. Sam was waiting for me back on Olympus. I had to hurry.

I opened my eyes and looked around, seeing a radiant girl with caramel hair and soft eyes. She smiled at me, stroking my eyebrow. I stared, unable to believe my eyes.

Calypso clicked her tongue. "You may be the only hero I ever met so capable of getting yourself into unfathomable trouble, Percy," she said.

My eyes widened. "Calypso. Oh. Oh, no. Oh gods. I—" I pushed up, trying to get away before a cataclysm started.

Calypso eased me back onto the cot. "Oh no, you don't," she chided. "I may have cleared your mind, but all four of the Hesperides bewitched you. My voice alone won't undo their spell. You have to rest, wait for it to finish wearing off."

"There isn't  _time_ ," I told her, starting to hyperventilate.

Calypso sighed. "Percy, did you come here for me? I came to stay with my sisters of my own volition not long after the gods released me from Ogygia. I may not approve of many of their practices, but I am in no dang—"

"You don't understand," I said quickly. "The gods banished me from my entire past, Calypso. The fact that you recognize me, that's  _bad._ Millions of people are going to die if I don't get out of here right now!"

Calypso stopped and stared at me in horror. "No," she breathed. "I have known the Olympians to be cruel before, but never like this.  _Why_?"

"Hera said I was 'sewing discord' at Camp Half-Blood." I shook my head. "It doesn't matter, Calypso, please. You have to help me get out of here. I need to run." A Celestial bronze dagger with a funny hilt pressed against my back. I remembered Sam's giddy laugh and snarky comebacks as my heart broke. Even after everything, even after my greatest efforts to keep her close, keep her safe, I would have to abandon her on Olympus and pray some god had the heart to get her to the only place safe for her now.

Calypso rested a hand on my chest, shaking her head. "I am a true immortal, Percy. My knowledge of this changes nothing. No harm will come to anyone. That is not how the Fates work."

I stopped, throat still tight. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I wouldn't risk the people you love if I wasn't."

I relaxed back and sighed, closing my eyes. "How long was I out?"

"Time is a little less difficult here than on Ogygia," she said, "but as best I could approximate, about half a day."

I dragged a hand down my face, wincing at the rough feeling of my scar. "Sam is gonna kill me," I muttered.

"Sam?" Calypso asked. "I thought—"

"Sam isn't from my past," I said, looking at her. "She's a little girl I met a few months ago in Los Angeles, just after I visited Hades. I've been looking out for her. She's like my little sister now."

Calypso nodded. "This banishment," she said. "Might it be temporary?"

I closed my eyes. "The only way I would be able to go back would be if a god belonging to Olympus targeted and sabotaged me, made me reveal myself to someone from my past without any way to avert the apocalypse in time." I looked at her. "In other words, there is no way I'm ever getting free."

Calypso hung her head. "Such wickedness is not becoming of the Olympians," she murmured sadly. She looked at me. "I heard a rumor you bathed in the River Styx to be able to fight Kronos, yet you are covered in scars and you had fresh wounds when I first began tending to you. And this cut on your face…" She reached toward it. I recoiled. She withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry. I tried to heal it. I used everything I know, but it made no difference."

I swallowed. "That's because it can't be healed. Ever." I sat up. The idea of laying down while having this conversation gave me a panic attack.

Calypso frowned. "Some wounds are harder to tend than others, but I  _am_ —"

"You don't understand," I said. I seemed to be telling a lot of people that. "If every god and Titan and  _everything_ got together and tried to heal it, it still wouldn't go away. I'm stuck with it forever."

She frowned. "That makes no sense. How…?"

I stared at my hands. "Do you know about Chaos' forgotten son?" I asked quietly. 

Calypso gasped, covering her mouth. "No. Oh, Percy…"

I looked at her, turned, and lifted my shirt to show her the long scar over the small of my back. "Monsters overwhelmed me about a year after I got banished. I'd been running for weeks with barely any sleep. I didn't stand a chance."

Her eyes filled with tears.

I let my shirt drop. "I made it all the way to the three judges, but they never got the chance to pass a verdict on my fate. I was sucked in. Up here, it was just a little over a year. Down there…" I swallowed.

She shook her head. "If I could grant you some peace, take those memories…I swear I would do it without question, but that place…my power can do nothing. I am so sorry. You deserve this least of anyone. You're the only hero who ever remembered me."

I offered her a pained smile. "You were wrong, you know," I said. "When you said the gods only sent you heroes who could never love you back? Somehow…I don't even understand it, but I still loved you. I didn't realize it until after I lost Annabeth and felt the same way about that I had about sailing away from Ogygia. I do love you, Calypso. Just…"

"We were never meant to be," she finished, smiling. "Thank you, Percy. You are the kindest hero I ever met."

I heard footsteps echoing through what I only then recognized as a dark, damp cave somewhere on Orthys. Calypso looked over, eyes widening. "Pretend to sleep," she hissed urgently.

I didn't argue, laying back and closing my eyes. Calypso started patting my forehead with a wet washcloth.

"Thee insists upon tending the prisoner?" a musical voice said, sighing in exasperation as Calypso wiped some hair out of my face.

"Show him some gratitude, Aigle," Calypso told her, sounding dark for the first time since I'd met her. "Were it not for his generosity, I would still be imprisoned on Ogygia."

I heard Aigle hum. "Another scheme by a cunning hero, I fear. Do you know what Heracles did to Zoë?"

Calypso was quiet a moment. "Yes. Percy is not like that."

"He left you, like all the others."

"He had a war to fight!" Calypso yelled. "When it finished, one of his first actions was to demand my freedom."

"Then why did thee come here, sweet sister?" Aigle asked. "Why not rejoin your hero in that wretched Camp Half-Blood?"

Calypso sighed. "I could not bear to see him with his true love," she admitted.

I winced despite myself. Aigle didn't seem to notice, saying, "Yes. The daughter of his father's sworn enemy, and he chose her over thee, a goddess who would have showered him with endless love. I bet he bedded thee before continuing on his way."

"No," Calypso said. "Percy would never. He was always a gentleman."

Aigle hummed. "He is awake, is he not?"

Calypso's breath hitched the same moment my heart stopped. "What? No, he still sleeps. Your magic had quite the effect."

More footsteps. Calypso cried out. "Then he should not be able to defend himself."

I heard the scrape of metal. Calypso wouldn't be able to act in time, and I still had Sam to get back to. The knife was halfway to my heart when my eyes shot open. I threw up my arms with my wrists interlocked, stopping it before it reached me. I twisted my wrist around to yank her hand away from me, launching off the cot and ripping the dagger away from her.

Her eyes flashed wickedly. Once again, she began to sing. I growled. "I'm sorry, Calypso," I said before burying the blade in her gut. She choked and doubled forward. I kicked her off to the side.

Calypso stared at me in horror. "You…you just…you just stabbed my sister." She looked at me like I'd transformed into a hideous monster.

I swallowed. "I have to get back to Sam," I told her. "I have to get those apples to complete my antidote. I can't go back to the Pit, Calypso. She's immortal. She won't die. You know that."

"She's my  _family_ ," she said, tears pouring down her cheeks. "You said you loved me. They were right, weren't they? You're like all the others. You used me. You just knew how to act kind before you showed me the truth."

I stopped. I tried to shake my head, but then more singing filled the cave. I didn't have the time to argue with Calypso about my morality. I grabbed my rucksack off the ground by the cot, shrugged it on, and clamped my hands over my ears. I ran toward the mouth of the cave as fast as I could. I barreled through the other Hesperides and they clawed me, ripping through my shirt and into my skin. I kept running until I brought into the twilight, charging up pathway back to the garden.

The goddesses had to be right behind me. Aigle wouldn't take long to heal, and now it looked like I'd alienated Calypso, too. Five immortal sorceresses weaving a lyrical incantation to bewitch me would be unavoidable. I had to act fast—which meant I had to resort to impossible lengths to get those apples.

I ran full-tilt toward Ladon, thrusting out a hand and calling upon the sea thousands of feet underneath me, over the side of the cliff. With an inhuman screech, I summoned hundreds of gallons of saltwater toward me. Ladon woke up with a start at my battle cry. His heads let out a synchronized hiss and he braced for me. The water rushed toward him all at once. He looked toward the wave just before it curled around him in a furious whirlpool that lifted him off the ground. His legs and serpentine heads whipped around through the current, fighting against it to reach me.

I leapt into the air, letting the sprout carry me up. I could hear faint singing behind me as the Hesperides attempted to stop me, but the ocean drowned them out. I jumped off the fountain, pulling Riptide, uncapping it, and slicing seven apples down with a single swipe of the blade. They hit the ground a second before I did.

I glanced back down the path. The Hesperides, excluding Aigle, raced toward me as fast as they could go. They didn't bother singing anymore. It seemed my assault on their sister had spurred them all to bloody vengeance; now they wanted to rip me about with their bare hands.

I started shoving the apples into my rucksack as fast as I could, but I had used the last vestiges of my reserves. I slumped as the great whirlpool crashed to earth, spilling Ladon gracelessly over the ground. He landed with an almighty  _thump_ and bellow, snapping after me the same second I pulled on my fading energy to turn and run toward the cliff-side.

The Hesperides stopped by Ladon. One looked my way and shouted after me as I skidded to a stop on the precipice, "Where will thee go, hero? Thy fate is at hand. The end of days draws closer. Some foes cannot be opposed."

I turned, balancing precariously on the edge. "I won't oppose them," I told her. "Tell Calypso I never wanted to hurt her or any of you, but I had no choice. Tell her I'll be back for her someday. I'll make this right."

Another Hesperid laughed. "Empty promises from empty heroes," she taunted.

I shook my head. "I don't make empty promises," I said. "But you're right about one thing." Then I turned, held onto the straps of the rucksack, and dove over the side of the cliff into the sea.

Water rushed into my ears and my tears became one with the sea. Then, just like that, it ended.


	4. My "Blame the Gods" Mantra Never Fails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You remember what I said about being obsessed with music? Have an amazing Broken!Percy theme: “Lonely” by Nathan Wagner. Listen under the youtube username JennyMusic if you can; then click on JennyMusic and brace yourself for hundreds of glorious, epic songs. That channel rarely disappoints me. I adore it to no end.
> 
> If I get one person as hopelessly addicted to music as me, my life will be complete. That’s all I have to say.

I APPEARED ON THE MARBLE FLOOR OF THE OLYMPIAN THRONE ROOM ONCE AGAIN, drenched to the skin for a change. I collapsed and stared up at the pretty dome ceiling, trying to reconcile everything that just happened.

I saw Calypso again after years unaware what befell her when I ordered the gods to free her from Ogygia. I told her my terrible fate. Then, her half-sister attempted to bewitch, imprison, and possibly kill me, forcing me to hurt her to escape. She turned on me with the same betrayal in her eyes as I'd felt when Hera ordered me to tie up my loose ends with my loved ones, because I would never see them again once she gave the word.

Shock, I decided. This was shock. I preferred it to the other stages of grief. I don't think I've ever reached acceptance before.

"Well done, my son," Poseidon's voice boomed. I felt energy course through me again. I sat up and looked at him, shaking. "That whirlpool was quite ingenious, too. These fruits should produce enough juice for several batches. Hecate will be pleased."

I clenched my fist and struggled to my feet. "Calypso hates me," I said. "Your stupid errand forced me to hurt her sister, and now she  _hates me._ Why couldn't you do that damned quest yourselves?" My voice rose to a shout at the end.

I wouldn't have quieted my anger were it not for the squeal from the Ophiotaurus I affectionately named Bessie when I was fourteen. I glanced over at the tank for her kept in the corner. My heart stopped when I saw the water beginning to boil. All Olympians present paled fearfully at the sight. I crushed my rage like a grape, rushing over to check on her.

"I'm sorry, girl," I said, reaching into the tank to stroke the top of her head. "I didn't know what I was doing. Are you okay?"

She mooed lovingly and nuzzled my hand. I relaxed.

I heard Poseidon gulp. "Be careful, son," he said. "You know what happens if—"

I turned on him, eyes flashing. "If I wanted to destroy the gods, I wouldn't sacrifice an innocent sea creature to do it,  _Father._ "

Zeus rose, a storm-cloud darkening above him. "You have threatened this council for the last time, Jack—"

"He did not say he  _was_ going to destroy the gods, love," Hera said, guiding Zeus back into his seat while watching me carefully, "only that he would not kill the Ophiotaurus to do it." Zeus glowered at me as his wife addressed me. "Still, Jackson, your brazen comments have gotten out of hand. Remember the order of power here."

"Actually, Hera," I said, turning on her, "I think  _you_ need to remember the order of power around here." I strode into the middle of the thrones, pulled the dagger I found myself sickly grateful Calypso hadn't taken from me out from behind my back, and dragged the edge down my palm. Blood rushed out of the cut. I didn't even wince, crushing my fist closed and letting drops of blood puddle over the floor. The gods stared. "This?" I held up my crimson hand, showing them it. " _This_ is the blood of one of the many people you depend on to  _exist_. You need mortal acknowledgement, mortal  _empowerment_ unless you want to all fade away into oblivion, and even when you have it, you need your children to protect you against your enemies. You can't fight your own wars. You need  _us_ to do it for you." I laughed. "Without us, Zeus, Hera, Poseidon…without us, none of you would even be here, but at the rate you're going, you won't be here much longer."

There was silence for a while. Each Olympian present watched me, waiting for me to snap and attack. I could imagine how crazed I looked, pushed well over my breaking point and putting a bunch of omnipotent deities in their places, but I also didn't care anymore. I fumed, staring them down.

Poseidon took a deep breath. "S—" I glared at him. " _Percy_ , these apples must be given as an offering to the sea, so that I may purify them of Titan and mortal scent before allowing Hecate to synthesize them. This is best done nearest a divinely blessed body of water."

I sighed and held my head, uncaring about the blood I smeared over it. "Yet another errand I have to run, I see." I lifted my head and looked at him. "Okay, where is the 'nearest divinely blessed body of water'?"

"I believe you know, son," Poseidon said. "The barrier around Camp Half-Blood blessed the Long Island Sound when it was created. The nearest beach you can go by your old safe haven would—"

"No," I said sharply. "No,  _absolutely_ not." I clenched my fist. "I'm pretty sure you  _can't_ make me do that, really, because that would mean an  _Olympian_ sabotaged me into getting discovered, which would negate this entire mess. Is that it, then? I get to walk free and go back to my old life? Or are you going to pick up your own mess?"

" _Our_ mess?" Hera asked, almost amused. "The last time I checked, Jackson, the only reason you were in this precarious situation was because you were careless enough to be killed and failed to resist the pull of Tartarus. We have done you a great and unnecessary service, preparing your antidote and delivering it to you before the poison can reclaim your soul for the Pit."

I growled. "I  _wasn't_ careless," I said. "The Albany safe house was supposed to be protected by Hecate's magic. No monsters were supposed to be able to find me there!"

"I don't care for your excuses," she said shortly. "We never should have burdened ourselves with procuring these ingredients at all. It's about time you started acting for yourself."

I gaped at her, disbelieving. But she looked completely serious. Hera didn't know how to tell a joke, and she didn't know how not to be cruel.

And if I pushed her, she would kill millions of people to make a point.

I hung my head, defeated—again. "Fine." I took a deep breath. "Where's Sam?"

Zeus snapped his fingers. I tucked my knife away, but not before dragging my thumb over the engravings on the hourglass wood hilt:  _ER_ and  _PJ_. I shook my head out of the developing stupor and glanced over at the ornate double doors behind me as Sam charged inside. She barreled into me, arms wrapped tightly around my waist. I smiled and knelt, squeezing her to my chest.

I pulled back enough to look at her. "Sorry about that," I said. "They just needed me to run an errand for them. I've got one last thing to do; then we're good to go."

But Sam wasn't listening. She reached up and swiped a finger over the fresh blood on my forehead. "What  _happened_?" she demanded.

I hesitated and held up my hand. "Got nicked," I told her—the least deceitful, innocuous thing I could. She scowled unhappily. "It's fine. Not that bad."

"Wrap it," she ordered.

I chuckled, pulling out some gauze to tie it around the self-inflicted wound as we left. I ignored the gods (exempting Hebe, who I smiled at; poor woman had Heracles to contend with her entire immortal life, I could afford a little politeness for her), but Sam had the good sense to excuse us before we continued down the summit back into the real world.

"Where are we going?" she asked while we descended in the elevator.

I swallowed. "Montauk."

She frowned. "Wait, didn't you say—?"

"Yep," I said, looking at her. "Brace yourself, kiddo. We're about to do our riskiest maneuver yet."

~1~

The ocean tugged relentlessly on my gut as Sam and I trudged through the wilderness with more paranoia than any two people should have (especially when one of them is a young, prepubescent girl). Sam clung to my hand, and while I attempted to reassure her with my best smiles and encouraging remarks, I fell short every time. Camp Half-Blood called to me as much as the sea. It demanded I return. It seduced me with offers of rest, companionship, food, and everything I'd spent so long yearning for. Unlike the melodic songs of the Hesperides, however, it was not innately wicked. It sought to help me just as it promised; Hera, though, the other gods—they were not so benevolent.

I remembered the promise I made myself when I first met Sam—the same promise that plagued my thoughts for months. Nothing prevented her from enjoying the comforts my old home offered the weary traveler. She still belonged there. Getting her across the barrier and seen by someone who could keep her there without getting discovered in my own right, that would be the trick. I had to do it, though. Even if it meant braving the ruthless world alone, I had to give Sam her fighting chance.

She deserved the happy ending I'd wasted.

For now, though, I had to deliver Poseidon his damned offering. Sam tripped through the tree-line, and I steadied her, looking up to see the balmy waters lap against the shoreline welcomingly. I led her to the surf, kneeling in the water. I reached my hand into the shallow beach. A million voices filled my mind, but none of them suggested terrible, irreconcilable actions. The aquatic creatures my father existed almost solely to protect, whom I sought to help at every opportunity, rose to join the grateful din and ask me to join them. They still referred to me like I was royalty—and I supposed, in a bizarre way I never asked for, you could consider me a prince—and I chuckled.

"Sorry, guys," I said aloud. "I've got somebody else to look out for."

Their disappointed but understanding responses warmed my heart. I pulled my hand out of the water and shrugged off the pack, starting to set each of the eight apples into the ocean. Sam's eyes glazed over, and she reached for one.

I stopped her. "One bite from those apples would make you immortal," I told her. "Give it a couple centuries at the most, and you'd be like most gods."

She paled and snatched her hand back. She shuddered. "Who wants to be immortal if all it does is make you… _that_?"

I sighed. "Some… _things_ …some things  _want_ to be that." I placed the last fruit down, then closed my eyes and began the Ancient Greek chant. It translated to: "Father, Lord over the Seas, Earthshaker, Stormbringer, God of Horses, accept my offering. Bless it with your power. All hail thee." I repeated it a few times.

It left a very sulfuric taste in my mouth. I ignored it and stood.

Sam knitted her fingers through mine. "I had a thought," she blurted.

I eyed her warily. Some of her "thoughts" came with major downsides, like a depleted wallet in exchange for gelato ice-cream (but you ignore with her baby seal eyes, I dare you). Still, I squeezed her hand. "Shoot."

Sam chewed her lower lip. "Well, like…we're in New England, right?"

I laughed quietly. "Very astute," I teased.

"Oh, shuddup." She rolled her eyes. "And, like, Canada is  _right there._ " She pointed in the absolute wrong direction.

"You mean there?" I corrected, angling her arm the right way.

She flushed. "Shuddup," she repeated. "But, I mean, Canada's supposed to have a bunch of super-nice people, right? And it's got really pretty nature. All those forests, plus the beaches and the mountains. You  _know_ I love hiking." Her eyes danced with eagerness.

I frowned and crouched down. "You want to relocate to Canada?"

"I want to  _move_ there," she said. My eyes widened. "You can do that thing with the snapping and the 'these are not the droids you're looking for,' right?" I didn't know how appropriate that pop culture allusion was for the Mist—then again, no, it was very appropriate for the Mist. "Just, like, make it look like we're citizens or whatever. We can get a nice house up there. I can go to school. We—"

"—will get hunted down by monsters," I finished. "Sam, there are only two options for people like us: move or go to Camp Half-Blood. The third option would be introducing you to my uncle, which will  _never_ happen."

She growled in frustration and stomped her foot. "But I'm tired!" she screamed. "I'm so tired of running around the country almost dying! I want a  _bed._ I want  _school._ I want clean clothes I can put on every morning. I want a shower you don't have to break to make work. Why is that so much to ask?"

I faltered, the steady beats of my heart slowing and stopping. I resisted the overwhelming urge to cry, because it  _wasn't_ too much to ask. The answer to all Sam's problems laid not two miles away, on the other side of a nondescript hill, at a strawberry farm that offered so much more than fruit. Steady meals, good hygiene, a comfortable mattress to pass out on every night. Protection. Safety. Happiness.  _Home._

All the things I would never be able to offer her. All the things she deserved more than anyone else on this wretched hunk of rock floating through space.

And I knew, if I told her as much, if I suggested Camp Half-Blood as her blissful salvation, she would take it all back. She'd insist the nomadic life treated her better than anything else ever had, and she might be right; but that didn't mean there weren't better things on the horizon.

All I had to do was let her go.

I sighed. "I'll…I'll think about it. See what I can do." I hated lying to her. I had to lie to her.

( _One more lie brings the Jenga tower down, down, down…_ )

Sam beamed, but that smile fell when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I tensed. Sam held her breath. For a moment, the air sat still. Nothing moved. No sound reached my ears. Two moments. A minute.

Then a twig snapped behind me.

I whirled, yanking a she-demon—one of Keres, presiders of violent death—out of the bushes with a snarl. No sooner did I recognize those wild eyes and just-tangible features than I shoved Sam back and staggered, heart pounding.

It took me three seconds too long to realize what  _hadn't_ happened when I touched her. I pulled up short. "What are you planning?" I demanded. "Why not just kill me?"

She laughed wickedly. "You'll learn soon enough, little sprite. Until then…" She glanced back the way she'd come.

For a moment, I thought it might be an empty taunt—which did not add up with my many experiences with her kind before—but then I heard snarling, crashing, and felt heavy strides splash through the shore a few feet beyond.

Sam's breath hitched. "How many…?"

"Too many," I said. "Run!"


	5. I Lose It All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for this chapter. 
> 
> Warnings: Death, unstable character (which should be a warning for this entire series, if I’m honest), referenced child abuse, referenced drug abuse
> 
> If you want to cry really, really hard, listen to “Running Up That Hill” by Track and Field while you read this. Then you will know my pain.

THE WOODS WORKED AGAINST US AS WE RAN.

Errant roots jutting out of the ground, scattered trees, rotten logs, violent branches—it was like nature itself wanted us to die. I'd developed some good reflexes overtime, which saved Sam from plowing into the dirt, getting scraped up, and then getting eaten by a horde of stampeding monsters.

"What do they  _want_?" she screamed, stumbling over a tree root. "They shouldn't be traveling with that many or— _why are they all different species_?"

I had my suspicions. The only other times I'd seen hordes like this had been as Kronos marshaled his troops to march on Olympus and—but I killed the ugly memories before they could wrap around my mind and pull me under.

"Just run!" I ordered, and Sam obeyed.

I adjusted her trajectory a few times as memory filtered in. I hadn't been anywhere near this area in years for obvious reasons, but now, I had to listen to that honing radar I never quite lost, screeching in my head and telling me where to go. It wasn't far. It was far enough to die before we reached it.

An arrow sliced my shoulder and embedded in a tree as I slammed into it, too alarmed by the sudden sting to dodge. I glanced back to see more than a few  _dracanae_ bringing bows to arm. I cursed loudly in Ancient Greek and veered Sam to the left as they released the volley.

Time dragged on, sped up, and lost all meaning as we ran. Finally, we broke free of the woodland onto a familiar stretch of grass. On one side of us, a tall hill reached up toward a familiar pine tree that overwhelmed me with heartache. On the other, a dirt road wound into the distance.

"Across the hill!" I yelled. "There's a beach there, stronger than the other! Run ahead and I'll hold them off, give you time!"

Sam faltered. "What?" She shook her head desperately. "They'll kill you!"

"I'll be fine!" I lied. " _Hurry._ " I shoved her ahead. She tripped and ran.

The monsters burst through the timberline. A massive Cyclops destroyed two trees as he barreled toward me.

"Percy, c'mon!"

My heart stopped a moment. I glanced back, afraid someone might have heard—but no one from my past appeared at the top of the hill. No one at all appeared.

These monsters must have come this way to attack Camp Half-Blood, which made little sense considering the barrier warding it against outside attacks. Still, something might have found a way to circumvent the magic.

I stumbled back, running slower but fast enough to reassure Sam. "Go!" I yelled. She turned and continued pushing up the hill, but she was tired. Her feet stumbled and dragged along. Without warning, the heavens opened wide and spilled gallons of rainwater on our heads. Sam's tennis shoes couldn't grip the mud right, and she slipped too many times, sliding down before struggling forward a few more feet.

( _Do you see this, little pet?_ )

"Sam, hurry!" I screamed, still running. I would carry her to the barrier and throw her across if I had to. "Faster!"

( _Joy, companionship, love, hope—these things can never last. In the end, all that will remain of who you are, what you have become—it will be me. When they look into your broken eyes, they will not see their savior. They will see the husk in his place. I have broken you, little pet, body and soul. You just forgot._ )

Sam's foot shot back in the mud and she crashed to the ground. Somehow, my legs wouldn't carry me to her fast enough. The monsters were gaining. We were almost out of time, and I'd run out of tricks a long time ago.

( _It's time to remember._ )

I heard the  _twang._ I watched the projectile quiver in slow-motion as it flew straight ahead. I screamed, but my ears were deaf. Sam was deaf. The world was deaf.

( _One, two, three and four_ —)

I reached out. I tumbled through nothingness. The moment lasted forever. It didn't last long enough.

( _—the rain begins to pour._ )

The rainstorm didn't affect me as I cradled the dagger in my hand. Everyone had taken shelter from the gale. I stood alone on the rundown sidewalk. The neighborhood reeked of alcohol and the drugs it sold. I pressed the tip against my breast, closed my eyes. I thought of Annabeth, of Grover, of Nico and Thalia. I thought of the people I'd let die in my weakness and incompetence.

Then I heard a girl scream.

( _Five, six, seven, eight—_ )

I knelt in front of the little girl, wild, untamable hair, frantic eyes. She stared at her unconscious assailant in horror. "W-who are you?" she asked, voice shaking. "How did you do that to him?"

I stopped and frowned. "You saw that? The water?"

She nodded. "You screamed, and—and it just…how did you  _do that_?"

I glanced back at the man—Caucasian. The woman passed out on the futon with a syringe held limply in her hand shared the girl's skin-tone. I looked back at her. "He's your stepfather, isn't he?" I motioned.

She swallowed and nodded. "Is that why you hurt him? You don't like stepfathers?"

"I don't like bullies," I corrected. "My stepfather is a very good man. He's not. I hurt him because I didn't want him to hurt you." I probed the bruise on her cheek. She hissed. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to scare you, but I had to do something."

She held herself. Her finger tapped against her elbow. "I-it's okay," she said. "I didn't want him to hurt me, either."

I narrowed my eyes at her hand. She stilled it, confused. "Do you have ADHD?"

She ducked her face. "And dyslexia. Dumb learning disabilities. I suck at school."

I smiled. "Me too," I told her.

She stopped and beamed. "Really?"

I offered her my hand. "If you'll come with me, I can tell you all the really cool things kids with ADHD and dyslexia can do."

She chewed her lip. She looked around at the dingy drug-den. Then she grinned with a stiff back and high chin. She held out her hand. "I'm Sam.  _Just_ Sam."

I took her hand. "And I'm Percy."

(— _how could she outrun her horrid fate?_ )

"I never had a family before," Sam said suddenly, crawling over to tuck against my side in the dilapidated warehouse I used as a safe-house, engraved with magical wards to keep monsters out.

I faltered and looked down at her, frowning. I wrapped an arm around her. "Your dad's one of the gods. You've never met him, but—"

"That's not a family," she said firmly. "He wasn't there. Kasen hurt me, Mom always got high and couldn't do anything for me, but he wasn't there."

I sighed. "Gods do that. There are laws, though, and—"

"I don't care," she declared, hugging me. "You're my family, and I don't want anybody else ever."

( _Nine, ten, eleven, twelve—_ )

"I want to  _move_ there."

(— _one by one, the heroes fell._ )

The arrow struck true. I watched it sink into her vulnerable back like butter. I watched her lurch to a stop, choke, look down, reach for it, and fall. Tumbling, tumbling, tumbling…

( _Fate, earth, sky and time_ —)

Tumbling…

(— _in the end, you'll all be mine._ )

The hillside exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…I did that.
> 
> Please trust me enough to read until the end of the next chapter, even if I can hear the outraged screams of Sam fans now.


	6. And They Trembled at My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assuming you are not broken from that last chapter (I know I am), listen to “Hello” by Evanescence for this one. No, the music obsession will never die.
> 
> Warning: Insane POV, torture

THE HILL CRACKED UNDER THEIR FEET. The rain hardened into spears of ice as it raced toward the ground, impaling several monsters. Their agonized screams did nothing to assuage my grief. The storm picked up. Wind buffeted around the army in circles. In the eye of the hurricane, I fumed.

( _Kill them all._ )

This time, I didn't argue.

I watched as the monsters exploded into dust, melted into earth, broke apart with screams of terror. I walked measurably toward them. My one good eye sharpened with crisp awareness. The surviving monsters cowered before my aura.

"Which of you fired that arrow?" My voice boomed with authority, with wrath, with immeasurable power.

They wasted no time turning on the archer—a  _dracaena_ whose quiver hung half-empty across her back, bow fallen to her side. She watched me with uncertain confidence.

I approached her. "Who marshaled this army?"

She held her chin high. "I do not ansssswer lowly half-bloodssss. I do not fear you, son of the Sssssea God."

My lips curled. It might have been a smile. She recoiled. "All monsters have crossed paths with Him once or twice," I said. "He prefers heroes, but he'll take whatever he can get. Unless you're new…"

She hissed. "I know of whom you ssspeak, prisoner. We all do."

( _Make it hurt._ )

I took her bow from her, considered it, and smashed it across her face. She fell to the side, but only laughed.

She looked up at me, green-tinged golden blood coating her lips. "Is that the besssst you can do to the monssster who murdered your companion?"

I picked a splinter out of the broken bow, twirling it between my fingers. "No," I said, humming the familiar parody of a children's rhyme to myself. I crouched down and stabbed her eyelid with the splinter. She hissed. "I have much, much worse."

I continued packing splinters into her eyelids. She fought against me, but I wouldn't let her move to get away or fight. I wasn't sure how I did it. I didn't care. Her comrades watched in fear as she ground her teeth together, refusing to give in.

Then I took one of her arrows, broke it near the head, and began to trace familiar symbols far more ancient than the gods into her.

She didn't crack. I tilted my head to the side, focused on her lungs, on the ocean, and her blood seeped through the tissue. She choked and coughed it up. I wiped it off my face with a smile.

"Tsk, tsk," I chided, wiping her mouth. Her eyes widened in terror. "So messy. I can't take you monsters anywhere."

She gargled. "Sstop…" she pled weakly.

"Tell me who sent you," I said, still smiling and drawing little rivers down her chest with the arrowhead.

She choked. "N-never…" She sounded as though she spoke from underwater.

"I'll make it stop if you tell me," I promised, leaning close enough to kiss her. "Don't you want it to stop?"

She swallowed, groping around for a fallen weapon.

I clicked my tongue. "Now, now. You don't think you'll be able to kill me like this, do you?"

Her eyes remained wide as she stared at me and brought the knife up. Then she dragged it across her throat and exploded into gold dust.

I huffed and stood. I turned to the monsters and tilted my head. "I am Perseus Eric Jackson," I told them, walking forward. They backed away. "You attacked my charge and me. I can't let that go unpunished."

They shook their heads quickly. Some begged for mercy. It fell on deaf ears.

( _Rip them apart._ )

So I did.

As golden dust rained down around me, I turned. Sam laid on the ground, still. Blood pooled around her petite form. The anger died. I ran over.

( _She's faking._ )

I rolled her over. Her warm eyes stared up at me, glassy. The arrow had broken from her tumble. Her shirt was sticky with blood. I yanked the arrow out of her chest. "That's better," I said, brushing her hair aside and smiling. "All the monsters are dead, kiddo. You don't have to play possum anymore."

( _Look at the wound, idiot._ )

I glanced down. My fingers probed under the hole in her shirt, over the place where the arrowhead pierced her. Her left chest, between her ribs.

( _Feel._ )

I pressed my hand over her chest. It was still.

( _She's holding her breath. Make her breathe before she suffocates._ )

I shook her. "Sam!" I screamed. "Stop messing with me! Sam, wake up!  _Samantha fucking Foster, you wake up right now_!"

( _Check._ )

I probed her neck. My fingers slipped from blood, but I found it. I had to have found it. I knew where the carotid artery was. But I couldn't feel a pulse. I continued searching her neck in blind desperation. I shook her, sobbing.

"No!" I screamed. "You can't leave me! I need you! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up,  _wakeupwakeup_!"

She didn't wake.

I yanked her against my chest and wailed.

( _Mate._ )

"Hades!" I yelled. "You said you'd help me! This isn't help, you bastard! Give her back! You can't take her like you took your own daughter!  _Give her back_!"

Neither the heavens nor the Underworld answered.

The sea, however, did.

( _Come, my lord. Let her bathe in your domain. Rip the world apart, shake Olympus to its fortifications, and join her. Your uncle will welcome you. Such peace, my lord. Don't you want to see your friends again? Come, my lord._ )

I choked and nodded. I hummed and brushed her hair out of her face. "Sleep, little angel," I sang. I didn't sound as wonderful as my mother. No one ever could. "I'll hold you close and safe. No monsters will ever get you while I stand in their way."

I continued to sing as I lifted her into my arms. I staggered up the hill in a daze.

( _It's okay, Percy. Mommy's here. Nothing can hurt you now._ )

The air rippled around me as I wandered through. A dragon with glided scales picked its head up and stared at me in shock. I ignored it.

A large, multistory mansion sat at the base of the hill, baby blue with white trim. Older kids knocked a volleyball over a net. A barren field stretched beyond the mansion. An onlooker to the game holding a wooden bin glanced in my direction. He shouted out to the others. They all turned. Cries of alarm rang out.

The onlooker ran toward me, calling back, "Get Will and Annabeth and Nico!"

I knew those names.

( _No, you don't. You just think you do. It's all part of the madness, remember? You don't know reality._ )

I nodded in agreement, stumbling down to the bottom of the hill. The onlooker—shaggy brown hair hanging over his eyes in an unflattering bowl-cut, developing stubble, tiny tips to his ears and elfin face—stopped me.

"You're exhausted," he said. "Let me take her."

"No," I murmured. "I have to take her to the water. Everything will be better when we get to the water."

( _He's not real. Just move through him._ )

I tried, but he felt very real. He scooped Sam up against his chest and started walking toward the mansion.

I saw red.

I would have called on the ocean to stop him, but the promising tug slumped weakly in the pit of my stomach. I sank to my knees.

( _Then rip him apart with your bare hands. No one takes her._ )

I screamed bloody vengeance and launched myself at him. He cried out as I knocked him to the ground. Sam landed with a thud. I scrambled over to her, smoothing her face and humming. "Shush," I consoled. "Shush, it's okay. I've got you. You're gonna be just fine, sweetie. You'll see. Everything will be fine."

The man flew to his feet as people ran over. "He's in denial!" he screamed. "He's violent if he thinks you'll hurt her! You have to restrain him! We might not have much time."

Hands grabbed me. ( _Wraiths of papery hands clawed at my arms, wailing for me to take them with me, to kill them, kill them all, save them. So many screams. His wretched lullaby somehow carried above it all. Save as many of us as you can! I kicked open a cell-door on a broken body on the ground. It looked up. I ran, weaving through the incarcerated, assorted in a maze, and broke the lock on one more cell. Then I fled toward freedom, if such a thing even existed._ )

I screamed and flailed. "No!" I wailed. "She's mine! You can't have her! She's mine!"

"It's okay," they told me. "We're going to do everything we can."

( _They're lying._ )

"Liars!" I yelled, kicking up, fighting—but I didn't have the energy. They overpowered me with ease. I sobbed, struggling. ( _I tugged against the chains as the cell opened. "You must be wondering where you are…_ ")

The first man picked Sam up, carrying her to the mansion. I fought even still. They pushed me after him.

An aging man in a wheelchair and a potbellied sow sat on the deck, playing a card-game. The disabled man looked over, throwing his cards down and wheeling up to the stairs leading up to the porch. "What happened?"

"He came across with her like this. The others are coming," the man said.

"He?" The elder glanced over his shoulder, saw me getting hauled up. His eyes widened in disbelief. "Sweet mercy," he breathed. "Get them inside."

"I'll kill you!" I screamed. "You can't take her from me! You don't know who I am!"

( _No one knows who you are. But they'll learn. Oh, they'll learn._ )

They ignored me and pushed me inside. Pale walls, hospital beds. They laid Sam down on one. They pushed me onto another on the other side of the room. I struggled. They clapped my wrists in Celestial bronze cuffs. I fought, sobbing.

"No!" I screamed. "No, please!  _Please_!"

The man who stopped me shouted, "Check her pockets! If she didn't have any money on her—"

People ran over and patted her down. I screamed at them. "Don't touch her!"

The potbellied man wandered in, huffing. "You mortals, always so dramatic." He held my head down and shoved a gag inside, one palm flattened against my forehead. His eyes turned golden.

"Wha—? Mr. D, you can't do that!" someone yelled, but I barely heard them.

Everything sharpened. The cacophony, the peanut gallery in my head, fell abruptly silent as reality sharpened. I blinked, looking around.

The beds—cots—the people…the man in the wheelchair was Chiron. The one with the bowl-cut was an older Travis Stoll. Another was Kayla Knowles. Another—Will Solace. Then there was the one who helped me under a charade—Mr. D—Dionysus, god of wine and madness.

Madness like mine.

I hyperventilated. I struggled against my bonds with renewed frenzy. I looked over at Sam's motionless body with tears streaming from my good eye. I had to leave her. I had to leave her without even giving her a proper funeral.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Thomas," he said. "I just needed some peace and quiet to think."

The door flew open. "Where are they?" an authoritative voice called, male.

"There," Travis said, pointing. "He's restrained. I think you'll need to help him when you wake up, if…" He didn't finish.

I looked over. He was a lot older, face thinned over, beard growing on his chin, but his eyes were that same onyx-black, hair like inky darkness, like Erebus itself, skin tinted just a little golden, but still wan, still pale, still a little too close to a ghost. A dark aviator's jacket hung over a  _Dia de los Muertos_ t-shirt. My breath hitched.

"Nothing!" the people patting Sam down cried. "She didn't have any money! Nico?"

Nico stopped, closing his eyes. Another boy with violet eyes rested a concerned hand on his shoulder, gnawing his lip.

Nico opened them. "Still in the lobby," he announced.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

I shook my head. I looked at Mr. D, confused, wanting an explanation, but he projected a powerful word into my mind:  _No._

I didn't say anything, still trying to wiggle out of my restraints. Then again, I was gagged. I couldn't speak.

Nico and Will marched over to Sam's bedside, blocking her from view. I struggled to see, shaking from fear and grief and even more emotions I couldn't name.

They held out their hands. Will started to sing in a beautiful baritone. Nico chanted in Ancient Greek. Their voices overlapped. The room pulsed with power. The shadows in the corners stretched toward Nico, lengthening, thickening, as Will glowed yellow-gold like the sun. The auras fought against each other.

Their chanting faded into an older language, more wicked, terribly cruel…

I shook my head and returned to the present. The power swelled. I heard the door fly open once again, a half-cry cut short.

Then the darkness and bright light vanished. Nico collapsed into the violet-eyed boy's arms—Pollux McGuire, I thought—and Kayla caught Will.

But I didn't care about that. I cared about the little girl sitting bolt upright on her bed, looking around the room with freaked, wild eyes.

"What. The.  _Fuck_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…I did that thing, too.
> 
> I look forward to your incensed comments.


	7. I Lie. A Lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to TwistedSaiyan for helping me refine and shore up this chapter. I never would have gotten it down half this good without your help. Also, thanks in advance for all help on future chapters.
> 
> I rather like finding themes for my characters. It also helps avail things to me I might not have realized on my own. (I am too obsessed with music to ever stop.)
> 
> Percy Jackson Themes:  
> • “Everybody Lies” by Jason Walker  
> • “Shouldn’t Be Good in Goodbye” by Jason Walker (to an unfair extent)  
> • “No Roads Left” by Linkin Park (RIP Chester Bennington)  
> • “I’m Still Here (Jim’s Theme)” by John Rzeznik  
> • “War” by Young Yeller  
> • “Iris” by The Goo Goo Dolls  
> • “Flares” by The Script  
> • “Photograph” by Nickelback (which adds a whole new layer of complexity to his feelings with his banishment and the events since)
> 
> Percy Jackson and Samantha Foster Relationship Themes:  
> • “The Reason” by Hoobastank  
> • “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol  
> • “Run” by Snow Patrol
> 
> Annabeth Chase Themes:  
> • “In the Mourning” by Paramore (Her character is much more complex than her persistent grief over losing Percy, but it colors a lot of her actions. This also captures her determination to pick herself up and push forward, never quite ready to let him go completely.)

THE CROWDED INFIRMARY HELD ITS BREATH, watching Sam as her bewildered gaze took in her surroundings, the strangers, cataloging the weapons at their sides the way I taught her, and then, finally, finding me, handcuffed to the metal rods acting as a headboard with a wad of gauze in my mouth. We met each other’s eyes. I tried to tell her everything I could without speaking.

 

She didn’t catch it, because then she launched to her feet, grabbing a lamp and chucking it as hard as she could at the nearest target.

 

Travis yelped and dove aside. The lamp smashed against the floor a few feet behind him. Sam lunged, scooping up a scalpel from the nearby nightstand and slashing the air with it. “Nobody move!” she screamed. “I-I’ll kill you!”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Travis whined. “You’re both Ares kids or something, aren’t you? Stop threatening to hurt people!”

 

Sam turned the scalpel on him. “Push me,” she growled. “I dare you.”

 

Wheels scraped against the wood floor panels. Sam spun to face Chiron, whose sagely eyes only softened at the treacherous tremor in her hand. “We won’t hurt you,” he promised. “This is a safe place.”

 

“A safe place that carries medieval weapons and cuffs innocent people to beds?”

 

“Necessary precautions, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling. “The life of a half-blood is as dangerous as it comes, but we make do. This is a training camp for the next generations of heroes to prepare. No one here will harm you.”

 

“Then why did you cuff Eric to a bed?” she screeched. I closed my eyes with a quiet exhale of relief. We covered, a long time ago, that the safest bet around strangers would be to call me by my middle name—something I wasn’t aware any of my friends knew to associate me with. Risky, but Eric wasn’t an uncommon name. Without my godly parent to connect the dots, even my mother would be hard-pressed to see the signs before I vanished without a trace.

 

( _All mine…_ )

 

 _Shut up_ , I told the voice sternly. I might never know if I heard Him directly or not, but I didn’t want His running commentary on my life. My blood chilled. Hope ran thinner than air around us, fading, flickering, disappearing…

 

I tried to remember the date, but recent events made it hard to recollect. Ares issued the Olympian summons on the 13th. It took us two days to reach Manhattan. The 15th. Then the Hesperides knocked me out for half a day, and we reached Montauk for the offering shortly before nightfall on the 16th. It hadn’t been long since. I had two days before the poison regained its vitality and needed another suppression.

 

I had much less time before Hera threw a temper tantrum and destroyed a significant chunk of Western Civilization to prove a point.

 

The conversation had continued without me in that time, and I snapped back to the present with a start. “—tell me bullshit like that!” Sam yelled. “My brother is not insane! _You’re_ insane.”

 

“I understand your distress, child,” Chiron said, “but please, calm down. Whether from grief or unaddressed mental issues, your brother broke somewhat with reality upon your apparent demise. We restrained him as a safety precaution after he assaulted one of us.”

 

A surprised, slightly effeminate cough came from the direction of the door. I tried to sneak a glimpse at whoever it was, but people blocked my view. Chiron nodded the unidentified person’s direction. I heard the door open and swing shut, followed by hurried feet across the deck. It faded quickly.

 

Everyone paused to consider this, but then Pollux spoke up. “Should I check?” He set Nico down on a cot with an almost alarming amount of care. “See what he’s got, if anything?”

 

Chiron hesitated, eyes flitting toward Mr. D, who gave a subtle nod while maintaining his air of persistent boredom, shuffling a materialized deck of cards. I couldn’t be sure what the exchange was about. Chiron had nothing to do with my banishment; he would have raised heaven and earth if he learned of the scheme to ruin me. I didn’t have time to theorize about new dilemmas, though, because I could feel the sand slipping through the narrow hole in the hourglass, pouring toward our fateful demise.

 

( _One, two, three and four. Can you take any more?_ )

 

“Go ahead,” Chiron said, nodding toward me.

 

But Sam took a swift step between Pollux and me, holding out the scalpel with as much authority as she could muster. Her soft, youthful features dampened the danger in the trademark glare she’d learned from me, but the deadly weapon still gave him pause. “Are you armed?” she asked dangerously.

 

Pollux swallowed. “Knife behind my back. That’s all.”

 

“Hands in the air— _slowly_ —and turn around. I’m taking it.”

 

Pollux glanced at the others with a freaked expression, but he obeyed Sam’s orders. He inched his arms into the air and turned in place. Sam snatched the knife away. I blinked when I saw the midnight blade.

 

Why in the name of Hades did Pollux have a Stygian iron knife?

 

I glanced over at Nico, remembered the affectionate way Pollux carried him, and wanted to smack myself for newfound levels of obliviousness. Nico and Pollux must have either been dating or at least very, very close. The knife was a gift.

 

Pollux skirted around Sam. He wouldn’t carry that weapon without knowing it did a lot more than kill you; if used, it could reap your soul.

 

( _The hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap._ )

 

I shook it off and met Pollux’s eyes as he came to my bedside. His wariness of Sam gave way to horror when he saw my face, faltering and gagging. “Son of a—Kayla, grab some ambrosia or nectar or something. This guy got _fucked up_ out there.”

 

Kayla grunted as she dumped Will’s body clumsily on the nearest bed. She wiped her brow with a frustrated groan. “Right, because only children of Apollo can feed people insta-cures. What refined medical knowledge _that_ requires!” She wandered off to the clear glass cabinets in the back, still grumbling.

 

Pollux rolled his eyes and looked down at me, wincing. “That’s…gotta hurt. I’m gonna take out that gag, ‘kay?”

 

I just glared at him.

 

( _Five, six, seven, eight. Their hunger, you can never sate._ )

 

Pollux pulled out the gauze. I spat at him. Overexertion left my body dry, so I couldn’t produce any saliva, but he got the point. He recoiled. “Yeah…we deserve that.”

 

Kayla walked over, handing him a pinch of ambrosia. “I don’t know what’s so bad, we need to heal it _right_ —” Then she looked down at me and yelped, jumping back. “I’m sorry!” she said as soon as she recovered her wits. “It’s just— _gah_ , what did you fucking _piss off_?”

 

“Don’t cuss around Sam,” I said immediately.

 

Kayla clearly didn’t expect that answer. She glanced at Pollux with trepidation before backing away to give us space.

 

Pollux radiated unease. “Look, uh...did the kid say your name was Eric?”

 

“And hers is Sam,” I growled, flexing my fingers. “Now tell me where we are and what you people want.”

 

( _“I couldn’t say I was the_ best _liar, but I get by well enough. The things you’ve gotta remember if it ever comes down to it: never play too dumb, but also don’t let people know you mysteriously know things you wouldn’t under whatever lie you’re selling.”_ )

 

Pollux hesitated. “Look, I think it’s better I let Chiron and Annabeth explain that. I’m a people-person when I wanna be, but...I don’t handle initiations so much.”

 

“We’re not joining your cult,” I snarled.

 

Pollux snorted. “Cult? Nah, dude. It’s...look, I’m not good at this.” He ran a stressed hand through his blond mop. “I just figured to give you a heads-up. What people are saying about you being a little unstable could be worrisome. I’ve got this special ability where I can sense mental illnesses someone may have--depression, anxiety, that sort of thing. I’m gonna just...touch you. On the hand. Nothing drastic.”

 

But my heart had already started pounding against my chest.

 

( _Don’t let him do it. They’ll kill you. Do you think they want something like_ you _running around, endangering people? They’ll kill you. They’ll kill Sam to be safe._ )

 

I tried to think rationally against the panic gripping my throat, but it didn’t work very well. All I could think of was all the ways this could go very, very wrong.

 

Pollux chuckled. “Hey, relax,” he said. “Even if you do have something, nobody here discriminates. Me? I’ve got Major Depressive Disorder. So does my boyfriend. I’m even an alcoholic, but cross my heart, I’ve been sober for years. And that boyfriend I mentioned, he’s great with this stuff. Ask anyone around here, they’ll tell you he’s saved lives with his unique brand of...concerned asshole.” He laughed affectionately.

 

Then Nico and he were definitely dating--which meant Nico had adopted a habit of offering mental help to anyone who needed it. I felt a surge of pride toward him. He’d come a long way from the hyperactive nerd bouncing up and down at my side asking annoying questions about Annabeth and everything else.

 

I struggled against my cuffs, even still. If camp knew I had unmedicated schizophrenia, I doubted anyone would let me out of their sight—and I _had_ to find a way out of here before someone too smart and too close saw the scattered signs.

 

I tried to shoot Mr. D a warning look as Pollux reached up. The god didn’t look at me, but when I felt Pollux’s fingers brush my palm, his eye twitched.

 

Pollux pulled back. “You’re lucky,” he said, reaching over at a key sitting on a nearby nightstand to unlock the handcuffs. “You bounced back pretty well from that grief. I don’t know much of anybody with their head screwed on as straight as yours.”

 

I snatched my hands away from the headboard the second they were free, shoving up and pushing Pollux away. He staggered as I took my place in front of Sam.

 

“Now then,” I said, holding out my hand for the confiscated knife. Sam passed it to me without question. “Time for some answers.”

 

Everyone paled.

 

Just then, the door burst open. “All right. Who’s the little shit who thinks he gets to bully my camp and live to tell about it?”

 

My eyes shot over. My blood ran cold. Clarisse had added red and black tattoos to her aesthetic in my time away. She also wore a university ring, big and probably reserved for doing extra damage when she caved people’s faces in. Her brown hair still had a lackluster quality to it, but she’d cleaned up the ends a little. A few more scars decorated her angular jaw. She had a rolled-up bandana tied around her large head.

 

Worse yet, over her shoulder stood the object of my fantasies and nightmares herself: Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena.

 

I remembered the near-miss at the Empire State Building. If I wrote in diaries, I would mark this day with giant, bolded red letters of “FUCK YOU”—and never let Sam read it.

 

Instead of showing my terror, I held the knife in front of me. Short-range weapons messed me up the most of anything, but I’d practiced with the dagger I stole off Emily all those years ago. I had to adjust my stance to give the impression of someone with a natural affinity toward weapons but no proper training.

 

No, it’s not easy.

 

“Clarisse, let’s not pick fights we don’t need,” Annabeth said sternly. “I brought you here in case things took a turn for the worse. Don’t make me regret it.”

 

Clarisse scoffed. “I say the punk needs a bathroom break.” She cracked her fingers in front of her, rolling her shoulders back.

 

I arched an eyebrow. _If you want to gurgle toilet water yet again, by all means._ I told my snarky, competitive side to sit down and shut up. I couldn’t afford to let my powers show under any circumstances.

 

“Went before I came, thanks,” I said contemptuously, holding out the knife.

 

Clarisse snorted and crossed her arms. “I can already think of seventeen ways to disarm your cocky ass—make that eighteen. I like the spunk, though.” She marched forward and matched glares with me.

 

I didn’t back down. “I want explanations. Now.”

 

“Everyone _not_ in the command structure, leave now,” Annabeth ordered.

 

Murmurs of reluctance rang out, but most of the crowd thinned. Pollux, however, took his place by Nico’s side stubbornly. “Bull _sh_ —”

 

“Don’t cuss around Sam,” I said again.

 

Pollux sighed. “Right.” He shook his head. “I’m not leaving Nico.”

 

“I don’t need the crowd, Pollux. Go.”

 

“No!”

 

“Annabeth, what if their conditions change?” Kayla motioned at Will and Nico. “You need a good medic on standby, and I’m the best next to Will.”

 

Annabeth considered. “Fine. Kayla, you can stay. Don’t interrupt. Pollux, I’m sorry, but you serve no medical purpose. Fussing over your unconscious boyfriend will only get in the way. Now go.”

 

“Anna—”

 

“ _Out._ ”

 

Pollux flipped her off and marched out. The door slammed shut behind him.

 

Annabeth approached me. “I would prefer to conduct this civilly,” she said. “Without weapons.”

 

I quirked a lip. “Then how about a show of good faith? Help us trust you.” I held up the knife to Clarisse’s throat. She tipped it up, undaunted. “Put down _all_ your weapons slowly and carefully. Kick them over toward us.”

 

“And give you easy and immediate access to a wide variety of deadly implements when you’ve already demonstrated several violent tendencies?” she asked. “No. I will, however, agree to kick them off to the side and out of easy reach if you swear upon the River Styx to do the same once I have.”

 

My heartbeat sped up. Depending on how specific Annabeth wanted that oath, it would force me to forfeit all weapons on my person—including Emily’s knife and Riptide.

 

And I absolutely could never let them see Riptide.

 

I stalled. “ _Right_ ,” I drawled. “Because that’s going to, what…force me to comply?”

 

“Yes,” Annabeth said simply. “If you don’t believe me, you have no reason not to swear the oath. If you _do_ believe me, a refusal to promise will only demonstrate our inability to trust you not to turn to violence the second you see an opportunity.”

 

Check and mate.

 

( _Too late. Attack. Slit her throat. Kill them. Kill them all!_ )

 

I took a deep breath and ignored the voice, building in volume and fury as the confrontation dragged on. “Fine,” I growled, hoping I could get by halfway. “I swear on this _River Styx_ to drop this knife and kick it over to that wall”—I jerked my head to the side—“once everyone else in this room has kicked all their weapons over the same direction.”

 

A telling clap of thunder rang out overhead. I jumped but didn’t relent from my intimidation tactics.

 

I waited for Annabeth to back me into a corner. I might be able to work enough Mist to fool most people in the room, but Chiron would never fall for it. He would know. The world would end in a terrible, spectacular way.

 

Then, slowly, Annabeth pulled her dagger out of its sheath on her hip with two fingers and tossed it carefully over the ground. It skid to a stop at the wall. “I don’t have any other weapons,” she said.

 

I resisted the urge to glance down at her Yankees cap. Its invisibility properties counted as its own unique weapon, but I couldn’t let her see I knew that.

 

Clarisse rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Annie, you don’t expect me to—?”

 

“I’m pulling rank, Clarisse. Do it.”

 

Clarisse grumbled. I couldn’t imagine how many arguments broke out when people decided to place Annabeth above Clarisse in stature.

 

Still, Clarisse unfastened her sword from her belt, tossing it aside. “I guess now I’ll just have to beat you to death with my fists,” she sneered.

 

“Clarisse,” Annabeth chastised.

 

I shoved Clarisse back and angled myself to threaten Chiron without taking my eyes off the other two. Mr. D, unsurprisingly, stood silent in the corner, pretending the rest of us didn’t exist.

 

“I doubt the drunk’s got anything, but what about you, old man?”

 

Chiron glanced down at his body. “Me?” He smiled. “You don’t truly believe an elderly cripple would carry a deadly weapon, do you?”

 

“After the things I’ve seen?” I asked. “I’ll believe anything.”

 

Chiron nodded and held up his hands. “I swear on the River Styx, I posses no weapons at the current time beyond those innate to my body.”

 

Thunder clapped overhead.

 

Sam frowned. “None, then.”

 

Chiron smiled. “You would be surprised, child.”

 

I turned to Mr. D. “I’m not one to underestimate a threat. What about you?”

 

Annabeth and Clarisse tensed, eyes widening. They braced for a divine rage.

 

Mr. D just looked at me with a huff. “I’m not dangerous in any way you can change, Ean. Now hurry up with your little production. I’m getting bored.”

 

I pivoted quickly. “My name is Eric,” I snapped.

 

Annabeth looked a little surprised by Mr. D’s easy reaction. She recovered with ease. “He never uses anyone’s given names except for the other gods, Chiron, and Pollux. It isn’t personal.”

 

“Gods?” I echoed. “Thought the other one said this wasn’t a cult.”

 

“It’s not,” Annabeth said. “Now then, we’ve all complied with your demands. Before we tell you anything more, meet us halfway.”

 

I hesitated.

 

( _Don’t trust them! It’s a trick. You know what happened the last time you gave a pretty girl the inch she asked for._ )

 

But this time, the voice couldn’t get me. Annabeth wasn’t Emily. Nothing would ever turn her into Emily, and I knew it.

 

I bent down and tossed the knife over to the wall. It scraped over the floorboards, leaving a white scratch in its wake, and bumped to a stop against Clarisse’s sword.

 

Annabeth nodded, softening now that the danger was past. “Would you care to sit down?”

 

“No.” It occurred to me, suddenly, neither Annabeth nor Clarisse reacted to my facial deformity. I found myself unnerved.

 

( _They know. They know who you are. Do it. Hurry. Now!_ )

 

I glanced over at Mr. D, who shook his head imperceptibly. They didn’t know. They just expected the mark, I guessed. Or…something.

 

Annabeth nodded. “All right. To simplify a complicated story, you are both children of Greek gods.”

 

I snorted, hopefully loud enough to cover up Sam’s telling lack of surprise. “Oh. Never mind. This isn’t a cult. This is a mental institution.”

 

“Really, fucker?” Clarisse sneered. “’Cuz you ain’t never seen—”

 

“Don’t cuss around Sam,” I said.

 

Clarisse rolled her eyes. “You’re a _broken record_ , aren’t you? Whatever. What hurt your little angel, huh? Was it your regular, run-of-the-mill nutjob, carrying a bow in the middle of nowhere with a weird bloodlust for little kids?”

 

I flinched.

 

“Clarisse, that’s enough,” Annabeth said shortly.

 

“Save it, Annie,” Clarisse said. “I know how to speak this asshole’s language.” She narrowed her eyes into slits. “You’ve seen weird shit, haven’t you? Freaks of nature everybody else walks around like they’re not there. Wacked miracles nobody around you ever notices. You ever wonder about that?”

 

“I just figured I had schizophrenia,” I shot back without thinking.

 

Mr. D snorted loudly. I glared at him. He rolled his eyes and shut up.

“Really?” Clarisse said. “So the shrimp’s _also_ touched in the head with the same hallucinations and delusions as you. That it?”

 

I hesitated.

 

Clarisse huffed. “Yeah, thought so.” She nodded. “I ain’t no shrink, but I’ve talked to Nico di Angelo the Walking Therapy Session enough to know that shit don’t happen. People don’t link up delusions that way.”

 

I clenched my fist at my side, taking deep breaths. Clarisse had the unique ability to make me see red no matter how calm I started out.

 

Thankfully for everyone, Annabeth stepped forward and guided Clarisse aside. “It would be safe to assume you both exhibit symptoms of dyslexia and ADHD, correct?”

 

I glared. “Doesn’t make us retarded,” I growled.

 

“No,” Annabeth agreed. “I’m currently majoring in architecture with honor roll through online courses from Cornell University, and I have rather severe cases of both. I ask because we tend to use those learning disabilities as diagnostic tools for recognizing a potential half-blood.”

 

I narrowed my eyes.

 

“Demigod,” she clarified. “Your mind is best suited to interpret Ancient Greek, so it struggles to make sense of any other language. The ADHD comes from your naturally heightened awareness—an evolution we adapted to survive the many monster attacks we attract.”

 

I knew all this already, of course. Annabeth regaled me with a paraphrased explanation my first full day conscious here, all the way back when I was twelve. I shook off the wistful memories of simpler times when all I had to worry about was an impending Civil War breaking out because my uncle misplaced his favorite toy and blamed my father and his twelve-year-old son who had no idea Greek mythology made any difference in his life for the theft.

 

“Yeah, you just sound very, very crazy,” I informed her bluntly.

 

( _Slip, slip, slip goes the sand. Tick-tock, tick-tock goes the minute hand._ )

 

I didn’t need my voices reminding me of the narrowing window to get out of here before the apocalypse landed with a bang.

 

Annabeth smiled. Why was she smiling? Shit, I needed her to hate me! “I’m aware. How much crazier do the various explanations you’ve come up with sound?”

 

I didn’t answer.

 

Annabeth nodded. “We all have our doubts to begin with,” she said. “Except those of us fortunate enough to be raised by knowledgeable parents from a young age who aren’t afraid to tell us the truth, no one accepts the impossibility of our reality easily. That doesn’t change the fact it’s the only thing that makes any real sense.”

 

Sam skirted out from behind me. “Then…who are our, you know…gods?”

 

Annabeth smiled at her, eyes twinkling with warmth. I always knew she would end up a good mother.

 

Dammit, Aphrodite! Butt out of my head!

 

“First question, which of your parents did you know who was biological?”

 

Sam shifted on her feet. “M-my mom.”

 

Annabeth nodded. “I wondered if Travis had a point earlier, with your behavior, thinking you might be a daughter of Ares, but now, I’m thinking you got those tendencies from your brother. Were you raised together?”

 

Sam gulped and shook her head. “N-no. He found me a few months ago. We’re just really close.”

 

Annabeth nodded. “Well, I don’t know you well enough to make any guesses. How old are you?”

 

“Eleven.”

 

She nodded. “A—” Her voice caught. “A friend of mine made sure no one went past their thirteenth birthday without a claiming. Your father will announce himself then at the absolute latest.”

 

Sam nodded nervously.

 

Annabeth straightened and looked at me. “You?”

 

I clenched my fist.

 

( _“If you need someone to look the other way, give them the least information you can back up in case of emergency. Let them guess anything but the truth.”_ )

 

“Orphan, if you must know,” I growled. “Sealed records.”

 

Annabeth nodded. “Judging by your behavior, the way you carry yourself and hold a knife without any formal training, I’d guess you were a son of Ares. You’re my age, so you’ll be claimed soon, either way.”

 

I snorted. “Not that you’ll be around to see it, sweetheart.”

 

Annabeth stepped back. Clarisse tensed. “See, asshole,” the daughter of Ares started, “nobody threatens Annie here but me.”

 

I rolled my eyes. “Drama queens,” I muttered. “I’m not going to _kill you._ I don’t believe this nonsense enough to stick around. I also don’t work well with others. We’re leaving.”

 

Clarisse scowled. “What? Oh, c’m—”

 

“That’s not a good idea,” Annabeth said firmly. “This camp is protected by a strong magical barrier which wards it against monsters. Here, you can train and learn about the things you might encounter in the outside world, but out there, you’re running on a limited timetable. They _will_ catch you and they _will_ kill you, no matter how good you are.”

 

( _Pain. Searing pain rushing through my veins, blinding me, dragging me under. I just wanted a little sleep, but they found me. They always find you. Down, down, down…_ )

 

“Everybody’s on a limited timetable, darling,” I drawled. “I haven’t got any misconceptions in that regard. I just know I’m gonna spit in Death’s smug little face the day he drops by for a visit.”

 

Clarisse hummed. “You gotta respect him for the balls, Annabeth,” she said.

 

“But not the smarts,” she argued. “Listen, Eric, please—”

 

“Nope,” I said. “We’re done here.”

 

“But—”

 

“You gonna hold us against our will?” I demanded.

 

Annabeth faltered. She hung her head and sighed. “No.” She looked up. “Chiron, please. Do something.”

 

Chiron wheeled forward and I turned on him. “Child, please, don’t—”

 

“I. Am. Leaving,” I said, offering no room for argument.

 

Chiron didn’t look for one. He hung his head and allowed us to walk out of the Big House unhindered. I glanced at Mr. D on my way, hoping to convey the gratitude I didn’t dare verbalize or indicate with even a subtle nod of my head. His patented eyeroll assured me he got the memo.

 

I held Sam’s hand and stormed toward Half-Blood Hill, up to the crest. No one else hung around the volleyball court or anywhere in eyesight. Annabeth and Clarisse hadn’t come out to see us off.

 

I ducked down in front of Sam, taking her shoulders. “You’re staying here.” My voice broke as I forced the words out. Nothing I’d ever suffered compared to the pain of watching Sam’s face break, her eyes water, her head shake.

 

( _The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water sprout._ )

 

“What?” she breathed. “No. I’m coming with you.”

 

I swallowed. “I want you to,” I said, brushing her hair back, “but you said it yourself. You’re tired. The streets are nowhere a child should be—especially not one as wonderful and bright and beautiful as you.” I kissed her forehead. “Camp Half-Blood will keep you safe. It’ll train you. Fresh clothes every day. Showers. Three meals _at least._ A warm bed you never have to worry will get taken away. Isn’t that what you want?”

 

“I want you more!” she screamed. “Why can’t we go to Canada like I asked?”

 

“Because there are still monsters in Canada,” I said, heart breaking even more. “There are monsters _everywhere_ —everywhere but here.”

 

Sam choked on a sob. “Then we’ll fight them,” she said. “Like we always do. Together.” She clasped my hand desperately in both of hers. “You’re my family. Remember?”

 

I smiled and took a deep breath. “Always,” I promised. “I swear on the River Styx, Samantha Foster, even if something takes every memory I ever had, even if I forget my own name, I will _never_ forget you. Your name will be the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think about at night. You are my everything.”

 

The sky cracked with the oath.

 

Sam sobbed and shook her head. “Don’t leave me,” she begged.

 

( _Down came the rain and washed the spider out._ )

 

I held her close, fighting my own tears. I considered before pulling out something I had never shown her before. A seashell, textured and rough, mottled with an assortment of beautiful colors, curving in on itself around an opening. I held it out to her. “Poseidon gave me that as a peace offering a long time ago,” I said, smiling. “I never use it. He wanted me to call on marine life if I ever found myself in too much danger, but I don’t want to depend on it.”

 

“I don’t want anything from your horrible dad!” Sam cried.

 

“Shush,” I said quickly, smoothing her hair. It bounced up stubbornly. “But that shell will reach out to anything from the sea. And me, Sam? The ocean is a part of me. It gives me life almost as much as you do.” I smiled again, but my lips trembled. Tears started rushing down my cheeks. “Call to me, and I’ll hear you. I will always hear you.”

 

She burst into tears and flung her arms around my neck. “I love you,” she choked into my neck. “I won’t forget you, either. Not ever.”

 

I sucked in a harsh breath and kissed her temple. “I know.” I pulled back. “I love you too.”

 

Sam glanced back toward the camp. “What do I tell them?”

 

“Tell them you decided you wanted to give this place a chance,” I said. “Tell them you got tired of running around everywhere. You argued with me about it. I wouldn’t change my mind, so you decided to let me go alone.”

 

She gulped. “I don’t want to.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I never wanted to rope you into my lies. But they can’t know I asked you to stay. It would raise too many questions.”

 

Sam wiped her face furiously. “Okay,” she said. “For you.”

 

I stood and started walking backward. “Remember that sign I taught you?”

 

Sam nodded. She held up her hand in a three-fingered claw, pressed it over her heart ( _a tiny hole, so much blood_ ), and thrust outward. It faded into the sign for “I love you”—pinkie, index finger, and thumb raised. I mimicked it.

 

( _Out came the sun and washed away the rain._ )

 

The barrier rippled around me, reverberating, resisting my leave-taking, but I broke through with one last, apologetic glance at Peleus, the golden dragon protecting the brilliant sheep’s skin guarding the camp. He keened in farewell.

 

“Hello again, nephew.”

 

( _But everything it did had always been in vain._ )

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that monster makes up for the uncharacteristically short chapters we’ve had the last couple updates.


	8. I Get Bribed

Chapter Eight: I Get Bribed

 

I WHIRLED TO FIND HERA STANDING SEVERAL PACES DOWN HALF-BLOOD HILL IN HER ELEGANT SATIN GOWN AND EMBROIDERED BRAID.

 

I almost staggered back across the barrier in shock, but I caught myself. Every step taken as though through an earthquake, I stumbled toward her and knelt at her feet with my head bowed, my voice meek, my heart racing. “Lady Hera,” I greeted.

 

Hera scoffed. “I should have expected better than belated respect,” she said disapprovingly.

 

I swallowed. “Was there a problem with the apples, Your Majesty?”

 

( _It’s too late. Tear it down. Rip them apart before they can hurt them. They. Must. Pay._ )

 

“Do not play games with me, Jackson!” she roared. “You know where you just were. You broke our deal.”

 

( _“Should you violate the terms of your banishment, you will remain with breath in your lungs while millions more die—because of_ you. _”_ )

 

I choked, shaking my head. “No. No, please, Hera. I’ll do anything. Give me another chance. Let me make this right. I’ll do anything. Please!”

 

“Our terms were simple,” Hera boomed, growing in size until she towered above me with champagne-tinged power pulsing over the hillside. Clouds gathered overhead in dark arrays of black and grey, White lightning flashed without sound. A low rumbling spread out from where Hera began to rise, into the air, hovering. Her face turned dark and terrible with rage. She spread her hands. A staff topped with a gorgeous lily in full-bloom appeared in her right hand. She thrust it into the air. A spear of lightning landed atop the head, shooting through it toward the ground. The earth smoldered where it struck for several feet—grass disintegrated, dirt charred, life stripped.

 

I watched it all in horror.

 

( _Fe, fi, fo, fum—_ )

 

“By decree of the Olympian Council, members Zeus, Poseidon, Hephaestus, Athena, Ares, Aphrodite, Hermes, Artemis, Apollo, Dionysus, Demeter, and myself, you were ordered to abandon your former life. Punishment for failure to abide by your banishment was determined to be the eradication of all people who still remember to associate the name ‘Perseus Jackson’ with your former or present face. The first casualties of your impertinence will be the inhabitants of Camp Half-Blood, followed by Sally Jackson-Blofis, Paul Blofis, and their adopted eight-year-old, Chelsie Blofis.”

 

(— _who, in the end, holds the smoking gun?_ )

 

I shook my head desperately, thinking, searching for anything that might stop her.

 

( _Remember, nephew. Remember the exact terms._ )

 

I crushed my eyes shut, hyperventilating. “Uncle, just tell me,” I pled. “Please, I’m running out of time!”

 

( _You know the laws, Percy. You must remember on your own._ )

 

The air electrified. Hera wanted her slaughter to be a production. She wanted every moment of the end to drag on for more eternities than the Pit. She wanted to torture me as nothing had ever tortured me before.

 

She laughed.

 

I saw red.

 

( _Kill them all. Kill them all. Kill them all._ )

 

I slowly rose to my feet, fingers twitching. “One, two, three and four…” I began to sing as I wandered toward her, eyes flaring wide, smile tearing open, mind fracturing around its fragile edges. “Watch them crumple to the floor.”

 

I held out a hand. I called upon the sea. I called upon my anger. I called upon the fear I’d allowed to rule me for so long. I channeled it. Condensed it. Focused it. Threaded it through the needle of my fatal flaw. Directed it toward that which would see everything I loved and protected destroyed.

 

“Five, six, seven eight,” I continued. “Now you all will know my _hate_.”

 

( _No, nephew. She wants you to lose yourself in the search for revenge. Do not give my sister the victory. Remember. All must eventually bow to wisdom—even me._ )

 

I crushed my eyes shut, twitching, convulsing, struggling. How close to the 18th? Too close. I could hardly remember my own name. The voices rose into such a great cacophony, I couldn’t pick any one out of the din. They all yelled, screaming at me to perform their darkest will, but I couldn’t understand any of them.

 

I reached up and gripped my hair, panting, tearing, thrashing, gasping—

 

( _“Should someone from your past discover you live…”_ )

 

I sucked in a breath, flying back to brilliant clarity. “I didn’t violate the banishment!”

 

The storm died. Hera still hovered. The clouds did not disperse. Her power refused to wane in the wake of her confusion and impatience. But the immediate danger had ceased.

 

_Thank you, Uncle,_ I projected.

 

“The terms were to prevent anyone from my past from discovering I am alive,” I yelled up at her.

 

I couldn’t contain my radiant smile when I saw her expression fall and darken.

 

“Does anyone from my past know I am alive but those exempt from the terms of my banishment, Hera?” My finger twitched restlessly at my side.

 

So close…

 

Hera lowered to the ground. The clouds dispersed. The moon shone bright amongst the stars, and I thought The Huntress might have winked at me. She shrunk to the size of a normal teenager and clasped her staff in both hands diagonally across her body.

 

“Well played, Jackson,” she said, but she didn’t sound impressed. “Once again, you managed to save your kinsmen by the skin of your teeth.”

 

I deflated in relief. “Always and forever, Hera,” I vowed. “Now, if you excuse me, I have to get far, far away from New England.”

 

But as I started down the hill, I heard Hera hum as if something interesting just occurred to her. I tried not to panic and continued forward.

 

“Are you a gambling man, Jackson?” Hera asked suddenly.

 

I faltered, taken aback by the bizarre question. I turned toward her warily. “No,” I said.

 

“What would it take to make you one?” She stroked the petals of her lily staff pensively.

 

I clenched my fist. My fingernails dug crescent indentations in my palm, then pierced the vulnerable skin and drew blood. “No more threats,” I growled. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I abided by your petty, arbitrary rules. Now let. Me. _Go._ ”

 

“Young Samantha desires a new life in Canada, does she not?” Hera asked, smiling at me over her staff.

 

I gulped and gave a step. “That doesn’t matter,” I said. “She’s staying at Camp Half-Blood.”

 

“But she misses you so,” Hera said. “Even now, as they lead her toward bed, she cries for her lost protector.”

 

I ground my teeth together, shaking. “This is hard enough without you reminding me what I’m putting her through, you heartless bitch!”

 

Hera nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. I can only imagine the grief, the pain, the suffering…but what if there was another way?” The malice of her simper, the wickedness alight in her caramel eyes, the size of her pupils—these things should have stopped me. I should have refused her, turned her down, walked away.

 

But that fragile spark of hope dancing in my chest wouldn’t let me.

 

“You’ll revoke the banishment?” I asked hopefully.

 

Hera laughed cruelly. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, Jackson. Your banishment is and will remain final until such a time as I see fit to lift it.”

 

That hope rolled over and died. “Go to Tartarus in my place, Hera.”

 

I tried to walk away once again, and once again, her piercing chuckle stopped me.

 

( _Everyone is falling down, falling down._ )

 

“I don’t feel like it,” she said. “However, I would be willing to make another deal with you, little nephew. A kinder one, should you fulfill your end.”

 

I hesitated and eyed her. “If I hear you out, does that bind me to it?”

 

She laughed lightly. It was no less evil than the others. “No,” she assured me. “You are only bound by it if you verbally accept.”

 

I swallowed. For once, the voices remained quiet. They offered me no advice, good or otherwise. I was alone with my thoughts.

 

I hated my thoughts.

 

“I’m listening,” I said.

 

She grinned broadly. “Prove to me your time dissecting the methods of Emily Richardson, daughter of Apacte, have not gone to waste.”

 

I frowned. “You…wait, you _want_ me to track her down? But you were always the one telling me—”

 

“Be quiet and listen, Jackson,” Hera snapped. I bit back my many retorts to watch her expression shift back to eerie glee. “Prove to me I face no danger of your kinsmen discovering your…vivaciousness and our pact, and I will grant you that which you desire most above all else.”

 

It was a trap. I knew it was a trap. Every instinct in my mind screamed it was a trap. My internal alarm bells went nuts, deafening me. I should have yelled, “No!” at the top of my lungs in her vindictive face and run far and fast away.

 

I didn’t.

 

Instead, I said: “And what is that?”

 

Hera grinned. “A life.”

 

My heart leapt. ( _“Hey, Wise Girl, I’ll explain everything. I just need to kiss you and hold everyone first. It was nuts out there. Just you want until I tell you.”_ )

 

Hera rolled her eyes. “Do you have selective memory, Jackson?” she demanded. “I told you your old life was out of the question. It still is. No—I mean a new one, one in which you can keep beloved Samantha Foster by your side without fearing for her welfare.”

 

( _Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall into her web. She’s a black widow. Do you remember what she made Heracles do to his entire family?_ )

 

But my eyes only widened. “B-but…our scents—”

 

“—would be erased,” Hera said.

 

I stopped and stared at her.

 

( _Check—_ )

 

“What?” I breathed.

 

“With our blessing and a bath in the waters of Lemnos, you and the child would lose all scents of godly power. Monsters would not find you. They would not recognize you as any different than the other mortals.”

 

(— _and_ —)

 

“But our records,” I said. “It would be almost impossible to—”

 

“We would falsify infallible documentation for you to begin your new lives with you as Samantha Foster’s legal guardian,” she said. “You would be Canadian citizens.”

 

(— _mate._ )

 

I stared at Hera in disbelief.

 

She grinned, sensing her impending victory. “Of course, you would also be stripped of all powers, including the simplest ones stemming from your dyslexia and ADHD. Those disabilities would cease to affect you.”

 

A life without learning disabilities? Was it possible?

 

“ _Anaklusmos_ would be confiscated, along with all other magical weapons,” Hera continued. “You would retain your memories of half-blood life, but it would never affect you or yours again. We cannot remove the madness from your mind, nor can we extract the poison from your veins, so you would be forced to accept indirect vials of antidote from us for the rest of your natural life.”

 

“Could Sam and I still earn Elysium?”

 

( _What are you doing, fool? Don’t fall for it!_ )

 

Hera arched an eyebrow. “Samantha, yes. You, Jackson, are destined with a very different afterlife.”

 

I swallowed, fingers twitching. The voices went to war in my mind—some wanted me to listen to Hera and leap at the opportunity, others wanted me to run, still more insisted I continue with the original plan of bringing the gods to their knees.

 

( _“To save a friend, you would sacrifice the world.”_ )

 

Then what would I do for the little girl I had wordlessly adopted as my own?

 

( _To save Sam, you would sacrifice everything else._ )

 

I stared Hera down. “Give me the exact terms.”

 

Hera grinned, all teeth and wickedness. “You will return to Camp Half-Blood under the guise of Eric and remain until October 31st. From the hours of ten o’clock at night to the stroke of midnight on All Saint’s Day”—I thought it weird for a Greek goddess to use a very Christian term for a day—“you will be free to leave Camp Half-Blood and accept your reward alongside Samantha Foster. Once midnight falls, however, the deadline runs out.”

 

I almost leapt at the chance, but I barely held myself back. “Swear on the River Styx that even if I do not leave the borders of Camp Half-Blood before midnight on November 1st, as long as no one from my past knows I am alive then, you will not kill them.”

 

I cannot describe the way her smile broke her face, broke the air, broke the laws of reality as it spread over her features like a tear through the fabric of everything. It just did.

 

“I swear upon the River Styx to your terms.”

 

Hera smashed her staff into the ground, and I found myself on the precipice of Half-Blood Hill again, still just beyond the barrier, although if I so much as swayed backward, I would cross it.

 

“Do you accept this deal, Jackson?” Hera demanded. Her eyes were inky black and swirling with greed, eagerness, a twisted mirth.

 

I ignored the warnings and stuck my chin out proudly. “I accept your deal, Hera.”

 

She stuck me in the chest with her staff and I tumbled down the hill.

 

~1~

 

It was a forest. A lovely girl with dark porcelain skin and silky black hair adjusted another beautiful woman’s grip and aim with a bow, notched with an arm.

 

“Aim true, sister,” the Hesperid half-sang in her ear. “Imagine it to be the heart of Perseus Jackson.”

 

But the girl’s arms shook violently, both from strain and reluctance. I looked downrange at an oblivious doe grazing several yards ahead. “I-I can’t,” Calypso strangled. “It’s just an innocent creature.”

 

“Innocent like the man who deceived thee?” Aigle asked. “Innocent like the bastard who promised you his love minutes before fatally wounding your sister?”

 

Calypso gasped. “M-maybe he was right,” she said, uncertain. “You were going to—”

 

“Clever tricks,” Aigle said. “Thee was right in the First Titanomachy, sister. The gods cannot be trusted to rule the world justly. Their children are as deceitful as they.”

 

Calypso choked on a sob, shaking her head.

 

“It is time, sister. Fire.”

 

Calypso crushed her eyes shut and started to lower the bow.

 

Aigle leaned into her ear and whispered something I didn’t catch.

 

Calypso’s head snapped up, her eyes hardened, and she brought the bow to bear.

 

The doe was dead before it hit the ground.

 

~2~

 

I heard nothing. The world was silent, but I could feel it—heat, almost worse than the lava at Mount St. Helens, blasting me in the face. Red flames turned orange turned blue turned brilliant white. Fireballs—actual fireballs—flew at my face.

 

I stumbled back, waving my hands and shooting bursts of water from my palms to extinguish the infernos as they careened at me, but whenever I tried to quench the heart of the blaze, it evaporated.

 

I tripped over something and landed hard on the ground, staring in terror. Outlined in the flames was the figure of a man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m curious to know your theories to everything that just happened in this chapter. I won’t guarantee I’ll confirm or deny any of them, but I think it might be fun to get the old guessing games started again. Speculation makes the world go ‘round, after all.


	9. When Lewdness Gets You Killed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Disturbing pseudo-mental break, mild torture

I WOKE WITH A GROAN.

 

My head throbbed. I sat up, feeling my world lurch around on its axis. I doubled over and threw up in the grass. I reached up to check my head and found something slick in my hair. I withdrew my fingers to see them red with blood.

 

I’d abandoned my rucksack on the other side of the barrier before turning on the monster horde, if memory served at all (and I wasn’t certain it did). All our supplies were out of reach, then, which meant I had to suck up the concussion and deal with it. It also meant I might never get my mother’s novel back, and my heart sank.

 

But if this went right, it wouldn’t matter. I could finally get a happy ending, and better even than that, I could give _Sam_ a happy ending.

 

First, though, I had to play the game.

 

No, I thought—I had to _break_ the game. It was the only way to win.

 

( _It’s always the only way to win._ )

 

I walked between the volleyball court and arts and crafts building across the creek. I took a deep breath and allowed it to help my concussion and close the cut on the back of my head. I hissed as it knitted together. I couldn’t let it heal anything else. I could let everyone think I used the drawbridge to cross, so I remained dry.

 

Maybe I should have been concerned about the contents of my dreams. Half-bloods tended to see glimpses of possible futures, the past, the present, or some figurative goings-on with bearing on their lives and the fate of Western Civilization. Still, I hadn’t had a true demigod dream in years—not since my banishment. I did, however, have terrible nightmares constantly. Most of them had to do with my past. Some, like those, acted as worst-case scenarios.

 

Although I had no idea why I was afraid of a human torch.

 

Over twenty-five cabins were assorted where there once was only twelve. They no longer rounded in an inverted U-shape, instead flaring into a Greek Omega. I recognized the bone friezes and obsidian walls as Nico’s home—Cabin Thirteen, it read.

 

I started to head toward them. They made the most sense to badger for Sam’s whereabouts, even though I knew where she had to be, considering the Mess Hall beyond the omega sat dim and unoccupied. Everyone had retired for the night.

 

But something stopped me. I glanced over toward the arena, narrowed my eyes, and wandered toward it.

 

I found Annabeth surrounded by randomly placed dummies, darting around and bypassing adaptable enemies’ defenses fluidly, acting as though she were deflecting a million clever assaults and pivoting to catch them in their newest vulnerability. The dummies must have been somehow spelled to react to Celestial bronze, because her dagger ripped them apart, glinting in the moonlight.

 

Her powder-blue scrunchie—how hadn’t I noticed the color before?—barely clung to the flimsy remnants of her ponytail. Most of her curls hung wildly around her face or stuck to it as she sweat and heaved for air.

 

I didn’t think, wandering over to one of the Corinthian columns and leaning against it with my hands tucked in my pockets. I watched her with my head tilted. I refuse to comment on what my expression looked like.

 

Annabeth had slaughtered all nineteen dummies except for one behind her. I thought she had forgotten about it, which worried me, because Annabeth never forgot anything, but then she whipped and threw her knife overhand at the dummy.

 

Somehow, it sank into its heart so deep, it didn’t even quiver.

 

Annabeth gasped for air, unarmed but safe from the imagined army, and I remembered what I had to do well enough to clap—slowly, chuckling lowly.

 

Annabeth whirled on me, stance defensive. She faltered when she recognized my distinctive deformity.

 

“Eric?” she asked, confused.

 

I pushed off the pillar. “In the flesh.” I wandered over. “Quite an impressive show you put on there, blondie.”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “Sam said you left.” She took a step back warily. She didn’t trust me—good. “She said you two had an argument and you left her behind.”

 

“Siblings fight,” I told her, shrugging. “I came to my senses and turned back. I can’t leave her—at least, not yet.”

 

( _Nicely played, Jackson. If you had been any more heavy-handed, you would have caused the next great extinction._ )

 

Annabeth looked bewildered. “I can’t read you,” she said. “You’re all extremes all the time, but Pollux didn’t sense any distinct mental illness on you. It doesn’t make sense.”

 

I smirked. “Not used to not knowing things, blondie?”

 

Annabeth considered me for a moment before sighing. She walked over that last dummy and yanked her knife out of its straw chest. “As a matter of fact,” she agreed irritably. She walked back over to me, sheathing the knife. ( _“How’d you like a real monster-fighting weapon?”_ )

 

“Happy to frustrate.” I grinned.

 

Annabeth shot me a dark look. “I _will_ figure you out,” she vowed. “I never stay stumped for very long.”

 

“Awfully big for our britches there, aren’t we?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “No, I just know my strengths.” She kicked some of the substitute guts of the dummies around with her steel-toe. “The thing about demigods—we all get something from our godly parent in particular. Some inherit more abilities than others. My friend, Thalia—she’s a daughter of Zeus. She summons lightning. Nico is a son of Hades. He can raise armies of the dead, influence servants of the Underworld, commune with ghosts, and even bypass some of the more flexible rules of life and death.”

 

I stopped, eyes widening. “Sam,” I breathed.

 

Annabeth nodded. “She was, legally, dead. A doctor would have called it. We found out better a few years ago when Pollux—” She pulled up short like she almost said something she shouldn’t have. Concern flared in my chest, but I stuffed it down. “Well, he died. Nico lost his mind from grief, screamed that he wouldn’t let him go, and made Will heal him. Everyone argued he couldn’t heal a dead body, and…well, Nico just threw up his hands and started chanting. It was one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen, and I’ve faced down titans.” She flexed her hand. “Later, Nico explained that as long as a soul had not crossed the River Styx and entered the line for judgement, Hades had no true dominion over them. Nico can anchor souls in limbo to their bodies while Will heals them.”

 

I glanced down, thoughtful. I wanted nothing more than to grab Nico, hug him close (damn his touch-aversion), and thank him profusely. But I couldn’t.

 

I looked up. “I won’t complain,” I said.

 

Annabeth sighed and shook her head. “My _point_ —damn ADHD—was that a lot of people around here get magical abilities from their parents. But me? I’m a daughter of Athena.”

 

I arched an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. “Translation, Ms. _Theogony_?”

 

Annabeth faltered. “You know classic Greek text?”

 

I shifted, suddenly aware how massively I just messed up. “I’ve heard of it.”

 

Annabeth nodded like that was an acceptable answer. “The goddess of wisdom and battle strategy.”

 

“Useful tricks,” I said. “Better than a bolt of lightning, at least.”

 

Annabeth frowned at me. I realized that could be interpreted as flirting. I realized it _was_ flirting. I almost panicked, but then I spotted the blessing in disguise: Percy Jackson never would have come forward and blatantly hit on somebody. Eric, however? He just might do exactly that.

 

( _Do you even know to flirt, dumbass?_ )

 

“What?” I asked, smiling wider. It was creepy. I’d have to play into that.

 

“First thing you should know,” she said, eyes narrowing even more, “is that I do not have any interest in anyone— _least_ of all arrogant assholes who think they can throw their weight around and get their way.”

 

Well, at least I could finally smack my teenage self on the back of the head for being an idiot who saw a chance where it didn’t exist. At long last.

 

I knew what I had to say next to keep up the charade and make Annabeth see red. She had to vehemently despise me right away. She already distrusted me. She already disliked me. But I needed unfettered, unabashed _hatred._

 

While gagging internally, I said, “We’ll see if you don’t change your mind about that.”

 

Annabeth’s eyes burned worse than Ares’ and she punched me hard in the side of the jaw. I let it land both to support the charade I had never had proper training and to punish myself for the terrible statement. I relished the ache.

 

Externally, I laughed. “Feisty. I like that.”

 

I imagined performing that Samurai ritual for dishonor on myself. It vaguely comforted me from the disgusting crap pouring out my mouth like audible diarrhea.

 

Annabeth growled. “Watch it,” she warned. “Next time, it’s a knife through your gut.”

 

I wanted to throw myself at her mercy. Instead, I smirked wider. “Kinky.”

 

I fully believe that would have been the moment I died (again) if it hadn’t been for the way the air chilled, my heart sank, and the voices clamored over each other worse than they had even on the hill facing Hera. I couldn’t help it. I whimpered and held my head, shaking from the force. I was sure Annabeth could hear them. She had to hear them. How could I be the only person who heard them when they were _this loud_?

 

But Annabeth didn’t notice my full-body reaction. Instead, she stumbled. “What in Hades?” she murmured, but I hardly heard her.

 

( _So loud. Make it stop. Cut them out. Cut it all out. No more. Please, make it stop._ )

 

I struggled to focus past it, but it was so hard. Annabeth grabbed my shoulder. Any other time, that would have sent me into a blind panic, careening through an episode under the impression it had been an attack, but everything else was _so bad_ , I didn’t care.

 

“Eric!” Annabeth snapped. “Something’s wrong. We have to get out of here.”

 

Her voice was so far away. Why was she trying to talk to me from so far away?

 

“Er—!” She stopped. “Oh. Good. Look, this one’s with me, but something isn’t—”

 

“One, two, three and four. Kill the Seven. Start a war.”

 

That stopped me. My head shot up. A dozen female voices, all scratchy and shrill, overlapped over one another. I whirled.

 

A crowd of harpies approached us in a daze, eyes glassy, pupils enlarged to encompass almost all of their pupils, even beyond. Mini abysses toiling where spirit and hope were supposed to go.

 

I’d only seen something like that once before.

 

I staggered back as the episode clawed at me, pulling me under. ( _“This, little hero, this would be your new home. You see, some lucky types attract so much attention, cause so much_ hope _in the world above, I become all aware of their existence. I rather enjoy the spunk your kind have. I like to dissect your better qualities, dig out the dark parts of them you don’t want to admit to. You could call it my hobby.”_ )

 

Annabeth stepped forward, guarding me with her body. She rested a hand on the hilt of her dagger while I struggled to reassert control over reality. “What did you just say?” she demanded.

 

“Five, six, seven, eight. Heroes always take the bait.”

 

( _“What are you talking about?” I coughed on the sulfuric air scorching my insides._

_“Didn’t I just say?” The slender wraith of midnight veins and empty expanses of blackness for eyes tilted His head. “For such a brilliant ray of hope, you certainly aren’t very_ bright _, now are you?” He laughed at His own pun._

_The chains holding against me against the wall turned to dry ice the same moment the entire cell exploded white with heat. I screamed as the battling extremes wreaked havoc with my vulnerable body. It lasted forever, before it stopped and I slumped, panting. My head hung down to my chest._

_The wraith lifted my chin, clicking His tongue. “This is the best the Hero of Olympus can give me?”_

_I coughed. “Wh—who are you?”_

_He chuckled. “They never gave me a name,” He admitted. “Probably afraid such a thing would give me too much power, I suppose. All my prisoners come up with their own. Some are vastly superior to others. I hope your nicknaming capabilities are better than your basic comprehension.” Somehow, the nothingness of His eyes twinkled with mirth, like He’d just told a hilarious joke and expected me to laugh._

_“I—” I coughed again. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”_

_He hummed. “No, you wouldn’t have. I’m a pariah, you see—struck from the history books, left barren, ripped away from my power base.” He smiled. “I understand you and I are very similar in that way.”_

_“I’m nothing like you,” I said, but even then, I didn’t believe it._

_“Oh, but aren’t you?”_

_I rested my head back against the wall. “You never told me…told me_ where _this prison is. The last thing I remember…” I faded back to the exhaustion, then the terror, then the soul-crushing pain._

_“You died,” He said._

_I looked at Him, a terrible thought occurring to me. “No,” I breathed. “No. There’s no way. Uncle wouldn’t—is this the Fields of Punishment?”_

_That time, His laugh echoed around the cell. “Oh!” He cried. “What a delightfully optimistic thought.” I didn’t sense any sarcasm in his voice._

_I stared at Him and shook my head. “B-but…if it’s not the Fields of Punishment, then…?”_

_He grinned even wider. “Oh, think, little pet. What place could ever be worse than those lackluster fields my great-nephew thinks so vicious?”_

_I stared at Him for a while before remembering the stench of pure evil, the flashes of wretched rituals and terrible things. My eyes widened. “No,” I breathed again._

_He laughed again, smile stretching impossibly wide, and this time, the entire prison laughed with Him. “Yes, little pet. Welcome to Tartarus. Get comfortable, because the eternities have a tendency to last—well, forever.”_ )

 

“What is _wrong with you_?” Annabeth screeched. “Snap out of it! Chiron! Clarisse! Somebody!”

 

“Nine, ten, eleven, twelve,” they continued, coming closer. “You are far beyond help.”

 

Annabeth staggered back, but then she whirled around. “ _No,_ ” she hissed. “Eric, I need you to snap out of whatever this is _right now._ We’re surrounded. The harpies turned on us.”

 

One of the harpies—blue-green feathers, like the color my eyes used to be—shot into the air and landed in front of me. Unlike the others, her eyes were all black.

 

She hissed an ancient language, too terrible to spell, and only I knew what it meant.

 

“Come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I get anyone telling me otherwise (it’s happened), let me tell you I am not just writing Percy’s struggle with schizophrenia and PTSD based on research. I live a firsthand account of those trials myself. The vaguely clearheaded moments overcome by hallucinations can, by far, be worse than the psychotic breaks which deceive you into believing this is all normal. You may be scared. You may be convinced of terrible things. But those terrible things occupy the majority of your worldview. You know little else, or, at the very least, they invade reality to such an extent discerning between your mind and the truth becomes impossible. Knowing you are not sane, however? Knowing something you cannot control is eating you from the inside-out? Few things are as excruciating.
> 
> Also, some episodes can be more feelings, flashes, while others can be like crisp playbacks of trauma, frame-by-frame. I am writing my experience with these issues; if someone else has a contradictory understanding of it, it differs from person to person. No one’s is worse than another. This is only what I know.


	10. I'm Left to Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for not giving credit to these creators before this. I took inspiration from your wonderful works subconsciously. 
> 
> Haunted House by Pey119 (on fanfiction.net): While relatively brief, this story utilizes nursery rhymes to a wonderfully disturbing effect to maximize the effect of supernatural tragedies in a haunted house. I am pretty sure it uses the exact lines of these nursery rhymes while the ones I have used toward dramatic effect are often mildly altered as consequence of who is singing them. I also contacted this creator for permission, and they granted it.
> 
> Hold Tight and Pretend It’s a Plan by Rynna Aurelia (on fanfiction.net and Archive of Our Own): I got the idea to interject flashbacks/voices/fuzzy, unclear thoughts into the narrative with parentheses from this wonderful story, detailing an alternate end to The Blood of Olympus where they lose the war, but The Fates send Percy back to his first day at Camp Half-Blood to change the course of history, and it separates some flashbacks as well as internal thoughts from the rest of the story with italicized interjections in parentheses. She gave me permission to continue writing this way. Please go read her story, though. It’s amazing. Just…go. Do. Please.
> 
> Also, I think another story on fanfiction.net inspired the part where ambrosia and nectar taste terrible to Percy now, but I looked for it. I couldn’t find it. For all I know, I did come up with the idea myself. The memory is foggy. If you might know where I could have gotten the idea from, please review and tell me. I’ll ask their permission as well.

I FOUND MYSELF STANDING, unchained, in the middle of a large cavern filled with various torture implements—some of which had never belonged to the outside world at any point in history. He stood tall before a wall engraved with strange symbols.

I looked around, terror constricting my throat. "I can't be back," I said.

He glanced over at me and hummed. "What? Oh, no. Hardly." He motioned me toward him with a deceptively warm smile that had no place on his terrible face. "Come. I want to show you something."

I hesitated but approached. He turned me to face the wall. I didn't understand the symbols, but I knew only primordials could truly read them. I tried to shrug off his skeletal claws in discomfort, but he held tight. I gulped.

"What am I looking at?" I asked.

"The source of all my frustration," he said, sighing as though we were old friends reflecting on life's tragedies together. "Tartarus itself carved these symbols into the heart of this prison eons ago, binding me here, under his dominion. It details the terms of  _my own_ banishment, allowing me to claim the souls of heroes who most soil my realm with their goodness, alongside the meager existences of conquered monsters. I used to enjoy playing with the pieces of Kronos before the rat reformed and  _you_ scattered him so thin over your sunny world."

"I never thought I'd say this," I began, "but remind me to thank Tartarus."

He laughed bombastically. "Oh, he's a right bastard. He rather likes you."

I didn't want to know why.

"This way," He said, steering me along the wall and stopping me at the end of it, where a large section stretched smooth. "Do you see this?" He gestured.

"Nothing," I said, confused.

He smiled. "Quite. Do you remember your final moments here, little pet?"

I frowned, but it washed over me anyway. ( _Running, running—don't stop running. Don't let them catch you. I tore into a cavern, looked around, panted. Monsters burst after me. I turned, exhaustion turning to panic. I reached out, reached for anything, and sent it ripping after them with a yell. The fiery water blasted the symbols off the wall as it crushed them beneath its might._ )

My heart lodged in my throat. "I took off some of the symbols by accident."

He hummed, hugging me around the shoulder. I just stared in horror. "Yes. Do you want to know the part you removed?"

The answer was no, but I needed to know. "What?" My voice didn't shake. My fear had transcended any outward demonstration of it. I felt numb.

"This part detailed how my banishment was permanent and unbreakable," he said. I shook my head hopelessly. "Yes, little pet. Exactly. Now, given the proper means, I can walk the surface world again. I hear mankind's fears are a special kind of delicious."

I staggered away, hyperventilating. "You're—you're lying. It can't be true."

"Will you take the risk?" he asked. "You didn't when the gods banished you."

I shook my head harder, faster. I stopped being able to breathe. "Y-you can't…"

He smiled. "Will you warn your friends?" he asked. "They won't believe you. Not unless you tell them that which endangers them by their closest family."

I choked—on tears, on terror, on myself, on the sulfur in the air, I didn't know. "Why do you people always do this to me?" I asked weakly.

He clicked his tongue and patted my cheek. "There, there," he consoled insincerely. "Maybe you shouldn't be asking why we do this to you, but why you make it so easy to do."

( _Eric!_ )

He hummed. "Your beloved's calling. You ought to hurry."

I did the three-fingered claw over my heart.

He only laughed. "You know by now, little pet. That doesn't work on me." He traced the scar he gave me lovingly. "We may see each other even sooner than I thought. Mind you get that antidote in time, little pet. You wouldn't want this fit to be the last, now would you?"

~1~

I gasped awake, surging upright.

I had no idea how long He'd had me in real-world time, but in that time, my body had crumpled to the ground, the harpies had descended like a rabid flock of vultures, and Annabeth had taken her fair share of abuse.

"Finally!" she screamed. "You  _cannot_ take pressure, can you?" She slashed at a harpy careening toward her, only to miss the one coming up from behind her.

I roared in outrage as it raked its claws deeply over her back. Annabeth wailed, arching before sinking to her knees at the mercy of the flock. They went in for the kill.

Fuck. No.

"Get back!" I screamed. "No one touches her!"

The harpies hesitated. They recognized me. They knew who I was, what I could do if pushed over the breaking point. They knew Annabeth could be that breaking point.

But they outnumbered us by a lot, and the voices hadn't quieted any. I shook on my feet. Annabeth clung to consciousness.

A second before they swooped back in, I lunged out, grabbing a spear off the weapon's rack and spinning it around. It clubbed two harpies and impaled another.

I just kept going.

I searched desperately for the blue-feathered harpy who threw me back into the Pit for a heart-to-heart with my least favorite primordial. But she'd fortified herself in the heart of the flock, protected on all sides. It would be suicide getting to her.

I glanced back at Annabeth, who struggled to stand and fight back. She couldn't hope to survive this dazed. I couldn't leave her.

Well, I decided. I would just have to thin them out enough to reach the little bitch who started this.

I would have been better with a sword. I could work with a spear. I devastated the flock as they struggled to claim an upper-hand I wouldn't give them, not with Annabeth's life on the line.

Annabeth grunted and collapsed, too weak to stand, let alone fight.

"Er—Eric, I-I'm sorry…" she strangled. "Percy, I'm c-coming…"

My eyes widened. " _No_!" I bellowed.

All the harpies lurched to a stop as if frozen in mid-attack. Droplets of ice solidified from the air and smashed into the ground. I slaughtered anything in my path. They eventually rediscovered mobility and ripped me apart, but I'd reached her.

The lead harpy opened her mouth to vanquish me again, but I vanquished her first.

I collapsed as the other harpies came out of the trance and looked around at us in confusion, like they didn't know what just happened.

I picked my head to look at the nearest one pleadingly. The rest of the harpies took off and fled the scene of their crime, even if it wasn't their fault. She remained, watching me with a trembling lip as my vision dimmed, my heart slowed, and unconscious seduced me away from the world.

The last thing I heard was a high-pitched, deafening screech that exploded throughout the entire camp and a hard flap.

Then I was gone.

~2~

I came to with something harsh and acidic burning my skin over my wounds. A putrid odor wafted up my nose. I gagged and coughed, crushing my eyes shut.

"Easy," a guy's voice said. I felt a warm hand press against my back, guiding me upright gently while I grimaced and ground my teeth together against the pain.

I cracked an eye open, recognizing the golden halo of hair and surfer's tan as belonging to Will Solace. It took me a moment to clear my mind enough to trust myself speaking. "You're the one who—" I coughed again. "—who helped Sam."

He nodded and smiled. "Me and Nico, yeah." He helped me prop myself against the headboard. I glanced down at my body. I was shirtless, ripped open everywhere I could see and then some. My jeans had dried, flaky blood on them. The wounds the harpies had given me didn't look as deep as I remembered them being, and almost all of them had been stitched up.

Then I saw the golden tinge to the white cloth in Will's hand—soaked with nectar. That explained the foul smell and partially mended wounds.

Will followed my gaze down to the cloth and chuckled. "Oh. Yeah. I put a little bit of nectar on this—drink of the gods? Mortals would burn up from touching the stuff, but demigods can use it in small quantities for healing. I would just stitch you up with some good ole-fashioned Apollo magic and a few normal surgical techniques, but that thing I did for Sam drained me pretty bad. I won't be up to any miracles any time soon."

My eyes shot up and around. I was back in the infirmary, albeit not cuffed to a bed. "Where is she?" I demanded.

Will rested a consoling hand on my chest. "Easy," he said. "She wouldn't leave your side for a long time after they brought you in here, but she hadn't showered, and she hadn't eaten since dinner that night. We made her walk away and take care of herself."

I deflated against the headboard, resting my head back and closing my eyes. "How long did they knock me out for?"

Will whistled. "A while," he said. "About two days."

My head snapped up. "What?"

He smiled, lips twitching painfully. "Y-yeah. It's—it's August 18th now."

My heart started hammering against my chest erratically. I searched my head for the loud commentary I always had going over my life, but it was silent. That added up to one thing and one thing alone: I had mere hours—if that—before the poison started trying to claim my life and drag me back to the Pit.

Will smiled. "Yeah, I know it's scary," he said. "The first time something got me that bad, I was shaken up for a week afterward. Unfortunately, you get used to, living this kind of life."

I ran a hand through my hair. "Blondie live?" I kept my voice as unaffected and disinterested as I could, but I was scared. I doubted Will would be in this good a mood if Annabeth hadn't made it, but I had to be sure.

He chuckled. "She doesn't much appreciate being called 'blondie,' but yeah. She's in the bathroom freshening up right now." He glanced down at his watch, sighing. "Almost time," he muttered. "Sorry I'm missing it this year, guys."

I frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He looked up at me. "Huh? Oh, uh…it's nothing. Don't worry about it right now." He reached over and pulled up a glass of molten gold—nectar. "Here, drink this. It should start repairing the rest of your wounds. For some reason, that thing on your face did not want to heal just from topical treatment, but it should do the trick this way."

I hesitated, staring at it. The truth was, I wouldn't still have this scar if nectar, ambrosia, water, or anything else touched it. It wouldn't go away. It couldn't. It had been created by a very specific blade dipped in a very specific substance; godly magic, even a Titan's magic, could never heal it.

What would people think when they found that out for themselves?

Will sighed. "Annabeth mentioned you were distrustful," he said. "Look, it's not poisoned. I swear on the River Styx. I'm a healer, not a killer."

Thunder rumbled. I had no choice but to tip part of my hand. At least the scar had been a recent development over the last six years. I accepted the glass.

And started thanking Tyche and Hades expressively in my mind when the bathroom door flew open.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" Will demanded, coming to his feet.

I glanced over to see Annabeth in a simple, knee-length black dress, hair wound up on the back of her head in a bun, orderly and perfect. She lifted her chin defiantly. "Mourner's clothes," she said, unashamed.

I frowned. "Who died?" I asked without thinking.

"Countless innocent, good heroes," she told me without looking my direction.

I stopped. "How many did the h—hags kill?" I asked. I couldn't know just what they were yet. I had to be careful.

"Harpies," Annabeth corrected, "and thankfully, no one."

Okay, now I was lost. "Then…what?"

Will sighed and turned to me. "It's the memorial for the Second Titanomachy today."

My heart stopped beating in my chest. Of course. After so long without a normal life consisting of birthdays and celebrations, I'd let myself forget the eighteenth of August also doubled as my birthday—now twenty-second birthday—and the culmination to years of suffering and tragedy.

But I couldn't know all that. "The what?" I tried to look bored. I don't think I succeeded.

"How much do you know about Greek mythology?" Annabeth asked.

"Not a lot," I lied.

"Before the gods, there were the Titans, led by Kronos. He became threatened by the power of his children, so he ate them. Baby Zeus got away and eventually came back to free his siblings and take over the world. They cut Kronos into tiny pieces and banished him to Tartarus"—( _screams, screams everywhere, so much pain, sulfur for air and fire for water_ )—"but he made a comeback six years ago. It took years to defeat him. When we finally had, we—" Her voice caught. "A lot of brave people lost their lives for it."

Will held Annabeth's shoulders. "Annabeth, you've headed the memorial every year since it happened.  _No one_ expects it to do after you were always killed  _while at camp of all places._ "

"Percy would have done it," she murmured, looking away.

My heart twisted into a vice. I wanted to reach out to her, tell her I'd do it now, just help me out of bed and into something appropriate, I'm right here, just look at me, Wise Girl—

But I didn't. I couldn't.

"Yeah, because it took half the Ares cabin to hold him down and make him accept help when he needed it," Will said, squeezing her shoulders. "Would Percy want you to kill yourself doing this when you're not up to it?"

"What does it matter?" Annabeth cried, head snapping up as she tore away from him. She staggered and caught herself on a headboard. Will steadied her. She took a deep, pained breath. "Percy is dead. They're all dead. I lost a little blood. They lost a lot more."

Will hesitated. "Will you give a eulogy for Luke this time?"

I looked over, eyes wide. No. That couldn't mean—

"Luke Castellan is the reason they're all dead!" Annabeth screamed, shoving Will away from her. She choked on a sob, gripping the headboard. Her knuckles bled white. I stared in disbelief. Annabeth—the one person who never lost faith in Luke's suppressed goodness no matter how many terrible things he did—had overlooked his defining sacrifice in the final moments?  _Why_?

Will took a deep breath. "Go lay down, Annabeth," he said, reaching out to her.

"I'm going," Annabeth strangled out, fighting tears. My heart broke. "That's final."

Will growled quietly. "You think I don't want to give Lee's and Michael's eulogies, Annabeth?" he demanded. "I  _hate_ that I have to stay here watching you two, but—"

"Don't," I said without thinking.

Annabeth and Will looked at me in surprise.

I realized how soft and compassionate that had sounded and backtracked. "Look, I don't wanna deal with a couple obnoxious blonds intermittently glaring at me and making me feel better, so go to your dumb funeral thing. I'm fine."

Will hesitated. "I—"

"You don't want to make your patient  _upset_ , do you, doctor?" I mocked. I hated to do this today of all days, but I had to. "Just go."

Will sighed and nodded. "I-I should fight you harder on this, but I want to go too badly." He looked at Annabeth. "You're staying where I can watch you, got it?"

Annabeth shook her head quickly. "Okay, okay. Hurry up. You are  _not_ wearing that to the memorial."

Will glanced down at his yellow shirt, bright, obnoxious, and topped with a smiling sun. He winced. "Yeah…I just grabbed something from the closet without thinking. I have better clothes in my cabin."

He headed toward the door with Annabeth, only to stop and glance back at me. "I really appreciate this, Eric," he said. "Even if you're not doing it for us."

Then he left.

I sunk down into the mattress, taking deep breaths. I wondered where Mr. D was. Had he attended the memorial? Actually, no—it wasn't that surprising. One of his sons died in the Battle of the Labyrinth.

Would another one of the gods give me the antidote, then? I didn't have the strength to get up and search the infirmary for wherever they might hide it, and I doubted Poseidon would be thrilled with his family abandoning me to die an agonizing death that ended in a permanent, irrevocable trip to the Pit.

I don't know how long passed. There was a clock behind me, but I had to crane my neck at an awkward angle to see it, and I hurt enough as is. I held the glass of untouched nectar on my stomach, waiting.

While I did, I found myself replaying the crucial moments of the past six years over again in my mind. From the banishment to my death to my escape, and then, of course, the day I met my ex-fiancé.

No sooner did that joyful thought occur me than my face erupted in pain.

I screamed, spilling the glass of nectar over my body with a howl. I clapped a hand over my face a river of fire filled it. Yellowy-brown puss overflowed from the gash. Superheated steam sped through my veins, evaporating the blood flowing through my vessels and cooking me from the inside-out. I writhed around on the bed in agony, vaguely recognizing how much more extreme this fit was from all the others I'd endured overtime. Anguish engulfed me in seconds. I wondered if anyone was close enough to hear my wails.

I hoped not. No one should bear witness to this.

The nectar didn't help. It knitted the wounds it touched closed completely, but my skin also started to smoke where it contacted, which only supported the part of my mind convinced I'd just spilled acid on myself.

No god appeared. I was on my own, and I had no misconceptions about my ability to survive this without divine help. Already, the wraiths of the Pit had their claws wrapped around my limbs, dragging me down, down, down, down…

Sam's radiant laugh exploded in my ears, her yellowish-yet-brilliant smile banishing the darkness claiming my soul as I writhed there. They'd hauled her away from my side after hours refusing to leave it to her own detriment. She would never forgive herself if I died in her absence.

I knew, intimately, the pain only survivor's guilt could bring a person. I couldn't leave my little girl with that grief. Over my dead body.

No, I realized—over my  _living_ one.

The glass shattered against the floorboards when I threw my weight to the side. I crashed on top of the shards a moment later, grunting as they pierced my supple abdomen and turned crimson with my blood. As my body went to war with the sensations of burning, freezing, and breaking confusing my nerve-endings, I begun the terrible process of hauling myself toward the cabinets in the back.

If I had the wherewithal to think this through, I might have abandoned it. All past fits had been expressly averted by the administration of the antidote in the nick of time. I avoided divine food as much as I could, knowing it would never again taste like my mother's homemade blue cookies. Worse yet, someday, it might, and that would be harder to swallow than the entire River of Fire.

Now, though, I had to try. Maybe it could delay the process, improve a few moments of cognitive functioning enough to avail another solution— _something._ I couldn't roll over and let that demon take me away from my little girl.

I wouldn't.

A million years later, I gripped the wooden corner of the tall cabinets. Controlling my strangled gasps for air (the last non-painful inhales I might ever take), I tried to use it to pull myself upright enough to open them and pull out  _something_ —anything. It started to tip over toward me as soon as I put any weight behind it. I let go in a hurry and it crashed back against the wall.

I changed tactics. My limbs had started to fill with lead instead of steam, making it even harder to exert dominion over them, but I had to. I knew what came after intense bodily heaviness, and if I reached that point, it was over.

It took so much energy—more, maybe, than the wrath I rained down on the monsters beyond the barrier or the vengeance I wreaked saving Annabeth at the arena—to flop my arms around in some semblance of purposefulness. I used them to haul my legs into a functional kneeling position, gasping, choking, straining.

I estimated an eon before I succeeded. My eyes had frozen wide. I could no longer do more than whine in the back of my throat from pain, because my entire mouth seized up. Unbearably dry, I couldn't even swallow. I didn't have long before the rest of my body began to follow suit.

I pushed up with a desperate grunt and almost fell back. How I stopped myself, I couldn't tell you—sheer strength of will, maybe? I flung the cabinet open, smacking myself in the face in the process. I didn't feel the impact.

I lunged out. Things knocked around. First-aid kits, rolls of gauze—they crashed on top of my head, but I refused to give up. My pinkie stiffened, slightly bent. Panic gripped me by the throat and heart, but I couldn't hyperventilate anymore.

Then I had it.

The ornate box of ambrosia broke open against my skull. Golden squares—like a new kind of candy—bounced off the ground. I snatched one up, broke off too big a chunk, and shoved it in my mouth.

Too late, I realized my mistake. My entire face was paralyzed. I couldn't chew the foreign object, but my throat still worked—just  _barely_ worked. My middle finger stopped recognizing my commands to move. I used the others to push it all the back of my mouth, against my uvula, farther. I choked. I was about to exchange an agonizing death by poison for the much less glamorous option of inhaling a large piece of food and suffocating. That would make an excellent end to the ballad of Percy Jackson, yes—Thalia might drop by for a visit to point and laugh at my bloated corpse, telling everyone how she  _totally called it when I was fourteen._

I would  _not_ let Thalia get the last laugh.

I swallowed as hard as I could. It stuck on the way, but I fought. I swallowed more. It inched millimeter by millimeter toward my stomach.  _Just a little more,_ I thought hysterically. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon— _someone_ up there, let this work.

Almost there. Less than an inch. Another swallow. A centimeter. One m—

It hit my stomach. The hydrochloric acid immediately broke it down. Its magic sent it rushing through my body all at once.

The paralysis and pain didn't reverse or lessen, but I thought it might have slowed down a little bit. Long enough for Mr. D or some other god to remember the date.

Something terrible occurred to me. I had  _just_ retrieved the Apples of Hesperides for the antidote and given it to Poseidon. Maybe Hecate hadn't had the time to synthesize the correct antidote.

It wasn't coming.

Time dragged on even longer. My arm was the first limb to stop moving entirely. Its twin followed suit soon after. My torso. My legs. I fell onto the ground like a lead weight, bent and contorted in a way I might have found funny if I hadn't just lost the fight.

Was that the door? Oh gods. Someone just walked in to investigate the apparent chaos inside the infirmary. Someone had to watch me die in the most terrible way I could. I wouldn't even get to tell them sorry before it ended.

Footsteps, measured and calm, approaching, getting closer, closer, closer…

Of course, then the convulsions hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself not end on another cliffhanger. That was my goal for this chapter.
> 
> I failed that goal, but the dumb thing reached over 4000 words, and it would have taken another 2000 or better to reach another decent conclusion.


	11. I Burn a Shroud

BLUNT HONESTY TIME: I had never, to my memory, reached the epileptic fit part of the poison before. When that hit, I was caught totally off-guard—and I also didn't have a chance to process it, because then, I wasn't in the Big House anymore.

I floated on murky, dark water, colder than the seas of the Antarctica. Miserable voices clamored one over the other, encouraging me to give up, not fight, what was the point? I couldn't help but agree.

Someone cleared their throat at the shore. I glanced their way, overbalancing and starting to sink. I didn't even try to fight. I saw the wraith on the edge of the water, cruel smile greeting me.

"My sister is especially fond of this river," he said. "Perhaps you've heard of her. Ahklys?"

I shook my head tiredly.

"Goddess of Misery," he told me. "Rather depressing sort, her. She always likes to tell me how we're never getting out of here. I disagree."

I took a weak breath. "Why…why aren't you just…just dragging me…?"

"Hmm?" he asked. "Oh. Well, the final stage of the poison, little pet. You see, my blood can only sentence someone here." He motioned around at the bleak rock, damp with filthy water and blood. "Anything it mixes with must join me here—even, I suspect, other primordials, although no one has ever tested that theory. No matter. But my prisoners—you, I can only claim through alternative death or their consent."

I bobbed above the water a little. When I spoke, it filled my mouth. I might have choked or drowned on it, but that took energy I didn't have. "I'll never…never let you…"

He chuckled. "Then you will drown forever instead?" he asked. "How ironic. A son of Poseidon drowning, never to get free. Your long existence will be ruled by nothing but blithe monotony and misery. It will never change. You can never hope to escape. With me, you would never get bored. It would be a new terror, a new pain, a new fear every moment of the many eternities you will have with me. Excitement. A terrible excitement, I'll grant you, but it's better than this, isn't it?"

He made a certain degree of awful sense. I hadn't understood great deals of my torture from the insanity blotting out sentience from my mind, but here, I didn't have that option. I would continue to be aware of the grief, the hopelessness, and it would never change. Ever-changing pain cannot be predicted, but this…

Besides, I had escaped him once before, hadn't I? I could do it again.

I still hesitated, though. "F-fat chance, Torchy," I said.

He snorted. "Torchy?" he asked.

"Y'know," I slurred through the exhaustion. "The Torturer, Torchy…"

He smirked. "That wit of yours doesn't know when to die, does it?" He shook his head, almost fondly. "Well, suit yourself, I suppose. But in case you change your mind…" He held out his hand for me. "My hand is here when you want it."

But then, he didn't look like The Torturer. His skin deepened to a warm golden hue. His eyes morphed into the normal whites, with average pupils and gentle, blue rings around them. A pleasant, patient smile. Long brown waves streaked with grey tumbled down her shoulders. She didn't say anything.

She didn't need to.

"Mom," I breathed, choking on a sob.

She emphasized her hand.

"What are you doing down here?" I asked, good eye overflowing with tears.

"I can't leave my little boy to suffer alone, can I?"

I shook my head. "N-no," I said. "You have to go. Get out. Please."

"I can't," she said. "Not alone."

I swallowed. "I-I'll help you," I promised.

"You can't," she said. "Not from in there."

I looked around at the river I barely managed to stay afloat in. I took a deep breath. "I'm coming, Mom," I said, reaching out my hand.

I brushed her fingers, but something harsh filled my mouth, foul—like fermented diarrhea mixed with ash and acid. Her hand turned back to an alabaster claw. Her pleasant smile turned cruel. Her hair disappeared. Her eyes washed all black.

I snatched my hand back. The Torturer's face worked into a frown. "Hmm," he said. "I thought I had you that time. Oh, well." He waggled his fingers in farewell and I sank into the river.

~1~

I woke up to see Mr. D looming over me, head tilted. I was still on the floor, shards of glass imbedded in my stomach. I grimaced and started picking them out. They were still slick, which meant I must not have been unconscious very long.

The god's black hair still looked purple in the florescent lighting. Chubby cheeks, bloodshot eyes, leopard-print shirt. I supposed it made sense for an immortal to almost never change, because he looked the exact same the day I met him when I was twelve.

"What took you so long?" I asked.

"Your unending gratitude is the highlight of my existence," he deadpanned.

I rolled my eyes. "I mean,  _thank you_ , Lord Dionysus, Mr. D, whatever, but why didn't you do that before I, you know… _ended up back in the Pit_?"

Mr. D glared at me. "Because Pollux hadn't given Castor's eulogy yet."

I faltered, closing my eyes a moment. Grunting, I pushed upright. "I'm sorry," I said sincerely, feeling every bit the ass I should have felt. "I…"

"Quite, Pedro," he said. "Besides, that was an illusion. You still had time before you properly died and returned."

I ran a hand through my hair. "How…how is Pollux?"

Mr. D's face fell a little. "He's a recovering alcoholic," he admitted. "I didn't notice until Walter told me, and then he didn't get better until that damned Nathan started helping him after days not caring."

I hesitated. "Sometimes…look, Mr. D, sometimes it takes a certain person to help us with things. Just because Pollux needed Nico doesn't mean he doesn't love you. And it doesn't mean you're a failure as a father." I considered. "You're the only Olympian I've ever met who tries with his kids this much."

Mr. D scowled at me. "Why are you trying to comfort me, Peter?" he asked. "I cooperated in the Olympian decision to banish you."

I wasn't sure how to answer that. "I…I don't like you," I admitted. "I pretty much hate all of you for what you did to me, but I get Hera probably bullied you into it. Besides, if you hadn't helped with the, uh…the madness, after the Pit, I don't know where I'd be."

He stayed silent a long moment. "I abstained," he said finally.

I stopped and stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I abstained from the decision," he told me. "Hera needed a majority vote to pass it, and she needed no verbalized dissent from the council. I abstained. So did Artemis and Hephaestus."

I stared, unsure what to think. "I…maybe this is ungrateful, but—"

"Why didn't we oppose the decision?" I nodded. "Hera had become rather…adamant about its benefits toward us as a whole. I won't speculate on whether she was right, but I knew she stirred enough uncertainty in the council to make things next to impossible if anyone argued directly against the decision."

I turned my head and stared at the wall, somewhat numb from shock. "Thank you." I hesitated again. "Why?"

He snorted. "I have no idea."

We were silent another moment. "My father didn't abstain." I shouldn't have been so crushed by the knowledge. I'd hated Poseidon for years. Why should the understanding he could have  _tried_ to defy his queen change that?

Mr. D sighed. "No. He didn't."

I nodded. A longer silence. "I saw The Torturer," I said. "When the harpies attacked. One of them pulled me back into the Pit for a moment."

Mr. D arched an eyebrow. "And?"

"He…he showed me a wall." I swallowed. "He said I'd accidentally blasted off the symbols trapping him in the Pit escaping, and now…now, he might rise."

Mr. D shook his head. "I remind you, Pacey, that he exists to scare and corrupt. Why should you believe a word he tells you?"

I looked down at my hands. "Sometimes, the truth is scarier than a lie."

"Well," he said, "this is a lie. Forget about it."

I met his eyes. "What happens to the harpies?"

"They've been banished," he said.

I growled. "It wasn't their fault! They—"

"And how do we tell them that without telling them the rest?" he challenged.

I shut up.

"Everyone wanted to kill them, but I reminded them how enraged Iris would be by that decision. They've already been thrown out. They can't get back in."

I hung my head.

"Artemis reported that one of her scouts spotted Emily Richardson in Philadelphia," he said without warning.

My head shot up. " _What_?"

"None of the Hunters know who she is, just that she carried a Celestial bronze knife." He shrugged. "It's a reasonable guess the girl she described was your fiancé."

"Ex," I corrected harshly.

He nodded. "Ex," he agreed. "Still, you wanted to know any updates we might have on her."

I sighed. "Anything else?"

He held out his hand. In it was a small white-and-green cloth embroidered with a caduceus. My breath hitched. "I knew you would want him honored today."

I took it with a shaky hand. "How many of the other half-bloods are…?"

"All of them," he said. "Including the traitors—those who reformed and those who didn't."

"But not Luke," I said, eyes haunted.

"No one knew how to forgive him after learning you died," he said.

"But I didn't."

"No," he confirmed. "You didn't."

I pushed up to my feet shakily, stumbling over to the sink. I laid it gingerly inside it before struggling over to a drawer, pulling it open. It still carried matches. I pulled one out and ignited it. I dropped it on the tiny shroud. I watched it burn through tears.

"You deserve to be remembered as a hero, Luke," I said. "I'm sorry I failed you."

It burned away to nothing. Mr. D waved his hand and the ashes vanished. "His father has them now," he told me.

I nodded, taking a deep breath. "Thank you."

He touched my shoulder. All my wounds stitched up. "Now get changed before someone sees the rest of it," he ordered.

As I threw on a familiar Camp Half-Blood shirt with a terrible pain in the pit of my stomach and some fresh underwear and jeans, I said a quiet eulogy in my mind for all the other casualties of the war—all the people I couldn't save, the people whose sacrifices I couldn't honor with the rest of their family.

( _How many more people will you let die for you?_ )

This time, I wasn't sure if that was another voice or my own thoughts.


	12. I Never Liked First Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Too Late for Me" by Beth Crowley is both a raw, beautiful piece and a wonderful theme for Percy in this. She just released it. It's gorgeous.
> 
> Also, "Who You Are" by Lunatica works as a theme for Percy and another character who will later make his appearance. Don't hold your breath—it will be a while.
> 
> I know I lack the panache Riordan has when titling his chapters. I've been doing my best, but I suck at it. It's hard for me to be funny.
> 
> Warnings: Vaguely described self-harm at the end, NOT a suicide attempt

WILL HAD A CLIPBOARD IN HIS LAP, putting me through the standard medical questions with a few less-standard, demigod-inclined ones scattered throughout.

"Okay," he said, "you're answering these pretty well. Just a couple more." I rolled my eyes in exasperation and leaned back, draping my arm over a knee. Prolonged incarceration (minus, of course, the torture) left me antsy; my ADHD wanted to manifest into a physical being and rip out of my chest like that thing in  _Alien._

How long had it been since I'd watched a good movie? Way too long. I'd heard rumors that my favorite franchises had closed out in the past few years.

Whoa, ADHD! Chill out and  _rein it in._

Will snapped his fingers in front of my face. I jumped. "What?"

Will chuckled. "ADHD kicking your ass?" He nodded. "Yeah, that tends to happen when you keep one of us locked up in here too long. We're almost done."

"My ADHD isn't that bad," I said without thinking. "Pretty minor, really."

He arched an eyebrow. "You're not fooling anyone," he told me. "It's fine. Most people here have it off-the-charts. Nobody'll fault you for it."

I clenched my fist, only to open it and wave him on. "Whatever. Get it over with, doc."

"Have any of your powers been negatively affected by your injuries and recovery?"

( _He knows! Kill him. Kill him now before he tells someone!_ )

I groaned and pressed my palm into my temple. "Shut up," I murmured.

"What?" Will looked concerned.

Too late, I realized I'd said that aloud. After a moment of blind terror, I did my best to repair the damage. I snorted. "I told you to  _shut up_ ," I said. "'Powers'? Please. This place has gotta be some sanctuary for escaped mental patients."

Will didn't look convinced, but he went along with it. "No, actually. Almost all of us have some sort of special ability or another. My siblings and I run the gambit from healing magic to some pretty devastating singing voices."

I leaned back, resting my head against the wall. "Pretty sure that ain't my shtick," I said, trying to sound disinterested.

( _Imagine how many better people would still be alive if it was._ )

Will shrugged. "Yeah. You don't strike me as one of my siblings. Oh!" He pointed the back of his pen at me. "Godly father or mother?"

I growled quietly. "Like I already told blondie," I said impatiently. "Orphan. Sealed records. I haven't got a freaking clue."

He nodded, tapping his clipboard. "Well…your situation's been a little funny. Most gods try to claim their kids with a lot of witnesses, and you've been alone in here or just with my siblings and the other injured for a while. At the  _latest_ , you'll be claimed at the campfire tonight—you know, if you answer the rest of these questions." He stabbed the spring trigger into the paper a few times, shrinking the tip into the stem and then bringing it shooting back out.

And  _why_ was I so weirdly fascinated by a clicky pen?

I sighed. "Fine. Whatever. I don't  _have_ any 'powers,' so no. No, they haven't been 'negatively affected' or whatever." The pitcher of ice water behind Will beckoned to me, though, and after a moment's hesitation, I flicked my finger. It sloshed. Will didn't notice.

"Okay, now for the physical tests." He pushed up out of his chair, setting the clipboard aside as he motioned for me to stand.

I arched a skeptical eyebrow at him. "What are you doing?"

"What?" he asked. "Haven't you ever been to the hospital? This sorta thing is standard even in the mortal world, and  _here_?" He laughed. "If you're not at peak performance, you're likely to get stabbed or shot or something."

"Sounds like a right paradise," I said sarcastically.

( _Doesn't it_?)

"It has its moments," he said cheerfully. "Ups-a-daisies."

I groaned and pushed off the cot. "You're a right, infuriating ball of sunshine, aren't you?"

Will chuckled. "You sound like my ex." I didn't ask. "Okay, see the white tape? Walk a straight line down that."

As annoying as they were, at least Will didn't keep me too long performing a myriad of unnecessary physical examinations, clearing me with a flourish of a stroke across his clipboard and motioning me toward the door.

"It's just about breakfast time out there," he told me. "The Dining Pavilion is  _just_ beyond the cabins. I have to do a last-minute inventory, but I'm right behind you."

The prospect of food—fluffy yellow eggs, greasy bacon and sausage, delectable honey-glazed ham—had me rushing out, through Chiron's office ( _obnoxious Italian singers filling the trees, golden-beaked birds fleeing_ ) and onto the deck. I reached the second wood stair from the top when a familiar, effeminate throat-clearing had me lurching to an abrupt stop.

I turned to face Annabeth, who sat on a rocking chair, playing chess with herself. She stood up and walked up to me with a too-pleasant smile. "You're doing better," she assessed. She crossed her arms—something she only did when she wanted to intimidate someone, but still trusted them not to hurt her.

I didn't know how to feel about that.

I smiled scathingly and leaned against the railing. "Well, thank that baby-faced doc you've got in there." I jerked my thumb at the door.

Annabeth glanced back at the front door. "Will is the best we have." She turned her attention back to me. "That was some fight."

I arched my eyebrow. "You talking about the harpies, or…?"

"The harpies," she said, "and don't play stupid. You're not good at it."

( _"Seaweed Brain."_ )

"No idea what you're talking about," I said, picking dirt out from underneath my fingernails.

"Really?" She smiled. "Well, let's run down the list of damning factoids, shall we?"

My heart floated out of my chest, beating on a different plane of existence from the rest of my body.

Annabeth held up her left forefinger. "You come here, half-mad from grief, and after Sam recovered, you adjusted in an  _instant_ to deal with us. You tell us you're some orphan who's survived by sheer dumb luck for twenty-plus years with no reasonable understanding of the world you exist in. And yet…"

She reached behind her back and whipped out a familiar dagger—funny hilt shaped like an hourglass with triangular blade. It glowed with magic.

( _"That's…not an effective design for a knife, I gotta say."_

" _This? Well, call it…symbolic."_

" _Symbolic of what?"_

" _I'm sure you'll find out some day."_ )

My hand flew back to where I  _always_ kept the stolen wedding present, but it wasn't there. My heart smashed back into my body as I looked at Annabeth in horror.

She smirked victoriously. "Yep," she said, nodding, twirling the knife. "This is definitely Celestial bronze—one of the only two metals, funnily enough, that we know can kill monsters. Yet  _somehow_ , it was on your person when Will checked you over after the attack. Care to explain that?"

I clenched my fist, grinding my teeth together as I glared at her.

( _Abort! Abort! Kill her! She's dead anyway! Now!_ Now _!_ )

"I found it," I said darkly. "Something ugly wanted me dead— _again_ —and I found it while I was running away. I stabbed the… _monster_ with it, and it was the first time I actually killed one of those dumb things. I hung onto it. Sue me."

She nodded carefully. "Bizarre design for a weapon," she mused, examining it. "I asked our best weapons' experts if it had any hidden advantages I hadn't spotted, but they were all as confused as me. This hilt alone…" She clicked her tongue.

"Sure, it's a stupid design, but it's kept me alive. Now—" I lunged for it.

She tumbled out of my way easily. I growled at her. She held the knife up, watching it distort her reflection in the metal. "Who are PJ and ER?" she asked.

I tripped. "What did you just say?"

"Oh, these engravings right here," she said, tapping the letters in question. "They're initials, aren't they? Whose?"

I glowered at her, hand shaking. "No idea," I lied. "I found it like that."

She swept her eyes over me critically. "Funny," she said.

My heart didn't know where to stop, speed up, slow down, or tender its formal resignation to the continuation of successful bodily function. "What is?"

"Your body language," she said. "I took the time to study the standard tells people have whenever they're being deceitful. It's a useful skill, really, and you…sometimes, you look every bit a liar, but then there are these… _other_ tells. It's all a mottled mess, reading you, if I'm honest."

I sucked in a breath. "You are currently holding my  _only_ serviceable weapon, and you're keeping it away from me. I'm gonna be stressed." I held my hand. "Give it back."

"You must have had this on you when we met," she said, not listening to my  _very_ reasonable request. "You swore to throw your weapons aside."

I glared at her.

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh,  _clever_ ," she said. "You played on our expectations. Not too shabby for a certifiable idiot." She flipped the knife through the air and caught it. "I think you might make a  _very_ good challenge."

"What challenge?"

She grinned. "I told you. Most people, I figure out in  _seconds_ , but you? You're a complete mystery." She held out the knife for me. I snatched it away. "I look forward to unraveling your secrets,  _Eric._ Let the games begin."

Demonic laughter seemed to follow me as I fled toward the Dining Pavilion.

~1~

With the apparent exceptions of Will, Annabeth, and myself, everyone had already gathered at their tables in the Dining Pavilion, stuffing their faces. Dozens more tables were assorted for the new cabins, many of which sat vacant. Even considering it was the middle of August and most kids were in school, a surprising number of people packed themselves together.

As always, Table Eleven had the thickest congregation, but it had thinned out significantly since the last time I'd seen it.

"Hey!" someone called from the heads of pointed-eared misfits. An arm waved inelegantly through the air. "Eric, over here!"

I glanced over in time to see a familiar head poke out from above the rest of Table Eleven with an excited squeal. I laughed, ducking down in time to scoop Sam into the air with a triumphant cry, spinning her around. Some people paused their breakfasts to watch us amusedly. Sam latched onto my neck.

"How's it goin', kiddo?" I asked, leaning back enough to look at her. Someone had braided her hair back in two columns down her head. Even though I could tell how badly the bright orange shirt clashed with her complexion, I couldn't help but feel endeared by her broad smile, whiter than fresh snow.

"This place is  _so cool,_ " she told me. "There are these stables of freaking  _pegasi_. They all totally love me, too. There's this climbing wall that shakes and shoots  _lava_ down at your head, and you've gotta be fast and it's  _awesome_ to watch people totally wash out."

Travis laughed, pushing away from the table. "This one's bloodthirsty," he told me. "So, the basics of this setup are pretty simple: you sit and live with your siblings. Everybody's got their own cabin for their godly parent. We're Eleven—Hermes." He motioned at his siblings, who all waved at me, friendly smiles on their faces. I knew better than trust those welcoming grins. The hazing rituals would start soon. "He's the god of travelers, so you'll be staying with us 'til you're claimed. Make sense?"

I scoffed. "Does anything?" I set Sam down. "When do I start working off the food?"

Travis frowned in confusion. Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh, you're a health nut. We've got the arena 'round noon, foot races after that."

I rolled my eyes. " _No_ , idiot." I glanced around. "How do you work off debt? I ain't selling any weird drugs."

I know what you're thinking:  _Damn, Percy! Never thought you'd have the forethought to pretend not to know Camp Half-Blood doesn't make campers pay for their meals! That's pretty clever. You're good at this lying thing._

Stop being impressed, because the only thing I talked up was the nonsense about selling drugs. After years either doing odd jobs for money or shoplifting, I had legitimately forgotten Camp Half-Blood's system. Everywhere else came with a price.

Travis laughed, waving me off. "Oh.  _Oh_. Nah, man, chillax. Four and Twelve help grow the strawberry plants real juicy and stuff, so they're  _divine._ " He started to elbow me playfully, but I batted him aside. He shifted. "Right. We just sell that. I mean, you're old enough they might put you to work watching the younger crowd—plus you seem pretty good with kids—but you'll have a few days to get situated before we talk that over. Don't sweat it. Grab a plate."

Sam squeezed my hand and passed me a blue plate. "Tell it whatever you want to eat," she reminded me, whether to continue my cover or because she suspected I had actually forgotten about the magical plates (I had), I wasn't sure. "Same with the cups."

I remembered to arch an eyebrow skeptically, sitting at the end of the table with Sam to the inside of me. I looked at the plate and considered. "Not pancakes," I said finally.

Connor—Travis' virtual twin and younger brother—laughed. "Never met anybody who opens with what they  _don't_ want."

Bright yellow eggs, bacon, and ham appeared on the plate. I snatched up a fork and started digging in. I shrugged and said through a mouthful, "I'm not picky. I just hate pancakes."

Total lie, of course. I loved pancakes. My mother used to find me in the mornings with pancake batter cooking in a pan, because I went out of my way to wake up before her just so she couldn't stop me from starting the day with sugar. But everyone from my past knew all too well how much I treasured the sweet breakfast, and even though a lot of people liked them, I had to distance myself as far from my old identity as I could.

I couldn't complain, anyway. This was worlds better than beef jerky and coagulated gunk preserved in metal cans.

While I ate, Travis and Connor introduced me to everyone. It sounded like all the other Hermes kids I knew back in my heyday had moved on to college or some other life endeavor, because they were a lot of fresh faces. Ten in total, a couple kids and more than a few teenagers. Bailey, Victor, Aaron, Johnna, Simba (Sam made my  _The Lion King_ joke for me then, and the poor guy scowled at his plate), Sergine, Walter, Tijana, José, and Guiying (who they nicknamed Guy).

They also pointed out each table. They explained how the Zeus, Hera, Artemis, and Poseidon cabins didn't have any counselors, and Connor and Pollux turned a little sad when they motioned at the dusty green bench. I clenched my fist around my fork. They went on to talk about the remaining cabins, too. The first new addition they broached was the thirteenth construction, the representative table of which sat two people rather than the one—Nico, as he should have been, and Pollux, where he should  _not_ have been, trying very hard to seemingly stuff his hand down Nico's pants.

I stared at them for a long moment, trying to think up the safest way to find out what had happened there and  _why_ Chiron looked unconcerned by the flagrant rule-floating or how Pollux kept  _mouthing at Nico's ear._

I settled on gagging. "And you people see nothing wrong with  _that_?" I jerked the back end of my fork toward the couple.

Connor craned his neck to follow my gesture. "Huh?" His face settled into a determined scowl and he glared at me. "I swear, you can sleep with the dragon if you're about to turn into a creepy homophobe on me."

The rest of the table grunted in assent. I had no objection to sleeping with Peleus at the tree, but I couldn't stop myself from staring at them in horror. " _What_? I couldn't care less what genitalia they like. I've got a whole different opinion about incest."

Travis laughed loudly. "Oh. No, man. Look, Nico and Pollux have been through the ringer a few times. They're always miserable when they're not together. Chiron turns a blind eye to the rules for them. 'Sides…look at them." He smirked and whistled. "How's about you two get a room?" he called toward Nico's table.

Nico held up his middle finger.

Everyone laughed. Nico did nudge Pollux off, though, glancing back at us. His eyes locked with mine, flaring wide in alarm. My heart thundered to a halt. He inclined his head subtly at me before returning to his breakfast.

I glanced at the raised table overlooking the others. Mr. D was carrying on frustratedly with Chiron about something, and I dared hope his flippant swish of the wrist had been for my benefit rather than his.

No voices tried to tip my hand or drive me toward murder. I think the hysterical panic swallowing my chest must have overpowered them.

Other additions included, in order, Iris, Hypnos, Nemesis, Nike, Hebe, Tyche, Hecate, Janus, a cabin for each of the four winds, and—worst yet—Apate.

My fork clattered onto my plate when I heard that. " _What_?" I hissed.

Sam watched me in concern. My heart thundered against my ribcage.

Connor frowned at me. "Uh…yeah. She's the newest addition. I guess she asked for recognition or whatever, even though she doesn't have any kids here."

"The goddess of deceit," I said, digging my fingernails into my palm. "You built a cabin for  _her_?"

They glanced around at each other in surprise. Travis leaned forward. "How'd you know who she was? I mean… _I_ didn't know 'til a couple months ago when Annabeth announced the construction during a meeting."

"Why does that matter?" I demanded. "What happens if you  _do_ get one of her children coming here to stay? You just gonna  _let them_? Wait until they trick you into whatever clever net they've got,  _kill you_?"

Bailey held out a hand. "Whoa there. I mean, sure, lying's not great, but there are worse things to be associated with. A lot of gods get a bad rap. Apate's one of them."

"Because she's  _evil_ ," I snarled, "and it's  _genetic._ "

Travis shook his head. "Okay, look…it's not ideal, I suppose. But we don't judge people based on their parentage, anyway. Okay? Just…chill."

I shoved my plate away. "I'm done eating."

Connor jumped. "You barely—"

I didn't say goodbye, pushing to my feet and striding away. Sam tried to follow me, but I waved her back. "I need to be alone," I said, wincing at her hurt expression.

She slowed to a stop and let me leave alone.

I didn't stay alone for long, because the shadows reverberated a few feet away from me in an alley between cabins. Nico di Angelo stepped out with an easy smile that conflicted with all my earlier memories of him—both the hyperactive kid I met at Westover Hall who couldn't shut up about his card collection and the sullen, miserable one who grew up in an unforgiving world without his big sister.

( _"I hate you!"_ )

I backed away, hand twitching toward my knife. Nico held up his arms. He wore a black shirt with silver writing that read:  _Dead Ringer._ I had no idea what it meant, but I supposed he'd donned it as a pun.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm not here to cause trouble."

I gulped, heart pounding. ( _He knows. He knows. He knows…_ ) "Then why are you here?"

He shrugged. "A couple reasons." He hesitated. "Can I put my arms down?"

I jerked my head, and he lowered his hands. "Could've sworn you stayed behind at that breakfast."

He chuckled. "Special ability of mine. Hades is the god of darkness as well as things like riches and death, so I can hitch a ride through shadows."

I glared.

He shifted. "You don't trust easy, do you?"

I continued glaring.

He nodded. "Right. That…makes sense. I mean, half-blood your age, I wouldn't be surprised if you've seen some ugly stuff on your own. I was alone a fraction of the time it looks like you might have been, and…" He laughed quietly. "Well, I was a dick."

"You probably still are," I said warily.

He shrugged. "Probably. Just a different kind." He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. I jumped back before realizing it was a Fruit Roll-Up. "You didn't finish eating," he said. "I thought you could at least hang onto it, snack later."

"I'm fine."

He nodded and pocketed the offering. I wanted things to be tense. I wanted him to distrust me as much as I couldn't help but distrust him.

( _"All right, traitor. You've got your prize. Take me to the stupid palace."_ )

"I serve a few functions here," he told me. "There's the job of funereal director, which could be better, but I'm the best for it. Then rare instances like what happened with the little girl, Sam." He waved his hand nonspecifically. "I sometimes act as an ambassador between my father and the surface world. Some genius also decided to name me Third-In-Command around here, which…I never knew about. But back when I was a teenager, I figured out how much I enjoy helping people. Therapy."

"Why do I need your life story?"

Nico frowned. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?" He sighed. "Sorry. People keep telling me I need to work on saying more, having real conversations. I always miss the mark."

"And I don't care." I started to walk away.

Nico fell into step beside me. "Travis told me how you were when you first got here."

"Pissed?"

"Devastated," Nico corrected. "From what he describes…it sounds like you might have broken with reality after you lost Sam."

"Grief messes with the head," I said, flexing my hand. "It happens."

"Not like that," he said. "Not in my experience."

"You don't have much experience."

"I have a lot of experience." Nico cut me off. "Eric—uh, just out of curiosity, what's your last name?"

I glared.

He sighed. "Fair enough. We have to earn your trust. I respect that." He shook his head. "Okay, but back to the serious questions—do you hear things? See things? Suffer any kind of hallucinations?"

My heart hammered. "What the fuck are you talking about?" I demanded. "I'm not motherfucking crazy!"

( _Then what are we?_ )

"Whoa!" Nico held up his hands again and backed away. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Could have fooled me." My lip curled.

Nico sighed. "'Crazy' is a stigmatized word that has historically been used to demean sufferers of mental illness. It's not accurate. Almost any condition can be treated with immense success, assuming the patient wants help and has access to adequate—"

"I don't want a psych lecture," I growled. "Go away." I tried to march past him.

Nico stopped me. "Fine, then I won't give you one. But if I'm right—"

"You're not," I insisted.

"Please, at least talk to me. Just in case."

Panic gripped my chest. I had to dislodge Nico somehow, but he must have gotten a lot better in the years since I last saw him. I should have asked Hades about him. He offered to keep me updated on his life, but I couldn't handle learning about my old friends when I knew I would never see them again. The most I knew about was when Hades explained Nico had summoned my soul, forcing him to create an illusion to keep everyone fooled, and mimicked my demeanor to the best of his ability. I begged him to keep anything else to himself afterward.

It had been a grave mistake.

( _"I'm even an alcoholic, but cross my heart, I've been sober for years."_ )

Suddenly, I knew what I had to say to get Nico off my back, and I hated it with every fiber of my being. The only way I could force the words out was by replacing Pollux's friendly smile with Gabe's slimy leer.

"Pretty sure the drunk sensed me or whatever and said I was fine. So there." I tried to push past him, because I needed to  _go_  and  _hate myself alone_ where Nico couldn't watch me make it hurt, because it  _always_ hurt, and I needed to go, let me  _go_ —

Nico's face wiped clean. "What did you just say?"

( _Keep going. Don't slip up. You know what alcohol does to people. You've seen it a million times. You paid for it. Is it really all that wrong to hate him for becoming a monster?_ )

I glared, clenching my fist. My fingernails smarted against my palm. "The idiot you were making out with back there." I rolled my shoulders back. "He 'sensed' me and said I didn't have any…whatever. That good enough for you?"

"What did you  _call him_?" Nico's voice was edged.

Good.

"The drunk. I forgot his name." I shrugged.

Nico glared. "Pollux is not a drunk."

I arched an eyebrow. "Really? 'Cuz I'm pretty sure he said outright he was an alcoholic."

"Yes," Nico said, shaking, "because once you become an alcoholic, you  _remain_ an alcoholic for the rest of your life. But Pollux hasn't touched liquor in years. He's worked his ass off to get clean. He told you that as a vote of confidence,  _not_ so you can defame him with slurs you don't understand."

I held his gaze. "Oh, I understand perfectly." The ocean answered to my unease with giant waves and a distant storm. "He's a no-good deadbeat with a moronic addiction that's probably gonna kill him someday—but hey, if that's what gets you off…"

Nico punched me hard across the face. I staggered and relished the pain. "Never come near him, me, or  _any_ of the people I care about. Not until you figure out who the real monster in this situation is."

He marched away.

I staggered down the rows of cabins until I reached a familiar marble one. I threw myself inside with a strangled sob. Hera's tall, proud marble statue glared down at me from above the crackling firepit. I crashed to my knees and looked up at her.

"Why are you making me do this?" I asked brokenly. "Why do I have to hurt them to save her?  _Why did you do this to me_?"

The statue did not answer. Dazedly, I pulled Emily's knife from behind my back. I stared into the luminescent gold, face distorted over the blade. I could almost imagine how I used to look, back before I lost everything.

"Lady Hera," I found myself incanting, holding my left arm over the flames. They burned the underside. It started to blister. I raised the knife. "In days of old, mortals offered you blood sacrifice as gratitude. We strayed from those practices, and now you receive only meager food offerings. I give you that which you have thirsted for. May this blood sate your need, appease your ire, and grant them mercy."

I closed my eyes and brought the knife down.


	13. I Chat with an Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Percy theme: "Pretend It's Home" by Beth Crowley (because she will always be a goddess).

I WRAPPED MY ARM IN GAUZE AND SHUCKED A JACKET OVER IT. No one questioned the added layer when I reappeared walking out of the bathroom. A teenager I didn't recognize spotted me, gagged a little, and directed me toward Arts and Crafts. No one liked my sudden vanishing act or my attitude, apparently, which she made very clear when she stabbed me in the chest with the tip of her finger.

Good.

Travis and Connor were competing to find out who could make the most precious stolen belongings look the most innocuous. Bailey scowled at something that looked suspiciously like a mechanized lockpick, but without the bronze thumb Hephaestus kids inherited, she didn't stand a choice assembling it correctly. I admired the effort, though. A few of the younger ones wanted to be legitimate, though, creating honest pieces of artwork to show off.

Sam was one of them.

I pulled up a stool and plopped down on it with my legs splayed. "Hey, ki—" But then I glimpsed her sketch, and the world ground to a halt.

Maybe my first reaction should have been shock and awe at her aptitude with a pencil rather than coldblooded horror at the likeness she'd captured, and it would have been if she had drawn almost anything but  _that._

It was a woman, my age, with her mouth open in a triumphant laugh. Her hair fell straight to her shoulders, straps curling around her slender biceps to show off the scar over her left shoulder I'd given her as a parting gift.

Sam followed my gaze and shrugged. "I dreamt about her a few days ago," she explained quietly. "She's in this cave with this hole behind her. Everything feels cold and horrible there. And she's just…laughing." Sam looked at me. "I don't think she's a nice person."

Dazedly, I reached out and traced her jaw like I used to. I snatched my hand back. "It's good," I said. "The drawing." I swallowed and met her eyes. "Are you going to finish it?"

Sam nodded. "I…I have a feeling it could help somebody someday."

I kissed the crown of her head. "Always trust your gut," I told her.

Travis grunted vengefully and threw down his scavenged materials. "I give up on this stupid motherfuc—"

" _Language_ ," I hissed at him.

Travis glanced back at me and hesitated. "Dude, can I…like, what happened back at breakfast? You totally flipped."

Everyone turned their attention to me. The non-Hermes campers fit what I vaguely remembered of the Tyche table. Of course, they seemed to have all the best supplies.

My skin crawled under all their gazes. Voices rose to a vicious cacophony in my head as I struggled to cling to sanity. None of them had the vocal clarity to make any concerted sense, but they filled my body with malice and misery.

I didn't know how long I would last, front and center like this, and I had no idea how to dismiss their curiosity or suspicion. My mind misfired, little sparks jumping between brain cells without order or reason. A panic attack tightened itself like a boa constrictor around my chest. My heart whined as it was crushed. My lungs spasmed as they started to collapse. My ribs cracked. My vision dimmed. I went deaf against the onslaught of screams roaring all around—

Wait. Those weren't screams.

They were alarms.

I snapped out of the episode in time to see everything surge to their feet, scooping up their weapons in a rush.

"Move it, move it, move it!" Travis shouted, swinging his arm over his head as everyone scrambled toward the door, hastily fastening breastplates onto their shoulders. "Find Annabeth or Jake! I'm getting tired of rebuilding our cabin!"

I shot to my feet. "What's going on?"

"Attack," one of the Tyche girls told me, charging outside.

My heart stopped. "What happened to the barrier?" ( _Yellow pine needles, flaming invaders, betrayal—such exquisite betrayal._ )

"That only protects us from outside invaders," Connor said as his brother ran after the others, still shouting nonsense orders at the top of his lungs.

" _Outside_?" Sam squeaked. "You mean something bad's  _inside_?"

Connor shook his head. "No time to explain. You two stay here. You're not ready for a fight."

"We can—"

But Connor was gone before Sam could finish.

She looked up at me, eyes wide with fear. "You promised this place would be safe!"

"It should be." I growled and crouched down. "Sam, you know evasive maneuvers. I need you to stay out of this as long as you can. I have to check this out."

She shook her head quickly and latched onto my arms. "Don't go!"

"I'll be back," I promised, "but I haven't scratched the surface of what happens when Camp Half-Blood's security measures give out.  _Stay here._ Let me handle this."

I pried her fingers off my arms and ran outside.

Across the creek, campers had swarmed a massive, familiar, bronze-and-gold dragon without wings and glowing ruby eyes. It spewed fire down at them. They dove out of the way as quickly as they could, but not everyone avoided the inferno. Two cabins already smoldered from the assault. Another's roof had caved in under its foot.

I stared in horror, shaking my head. I flashed back to a conversation I'd had with one of my many now-deceased friends just before heading back to the city for what little time I had before war arrived.

( _"How's it coming?"_

" _Basically finished." He swiped his massive arm across his forehead to stop sweat from dripping into his deep-set eyes. He patted the magnificent head. "I wanna make a few improvements on his programming, but I gotta riddle it out first." He motioned toward a sheet of paper littered with more advanced equations that I'd ever seen Annabeth tackle on an ambitious day. "'Til then, though, he's stable."_

" _You got a name for him?"_

_Beckendorf laughed. "Silena's better at the name-game than me. I figured to let her call him something once I get him to a responsive point. His communication wiring might still be a tad faulty."_

_I wandered over and traced a scale. "You realize you're a total genius, right?"_

_Beckendorf grinned. "Nobody in my cabin's beat me yet. I hope I'm around the day I get a sibling who can keep up with me."_

_I clapped him on the shoulder. "You will be."_ )

This shouldn't be happening. Beckendorf devoted the last few months of his life to restoring this dragon to its full glory. He lost days of sleep. He missed meals. He enslaved himself to giving it back its former splendor, and while it had never quite reached the point he wanted it to, where he felt confident leading it onto the battlefield with his cabin, it was  _safe._

Now it wanted to destroy Camp Half-Blood, and Camp Half-Blood wanted to destroy it.

I charged over toward the mess of fighters struggling to protect their homes. I saw Kayla Knowles latch an arrow and aim it at one of its eyes. I recognized the design. It would detonate on impact, creating a massive explosion that would destroy the intricate wiring Beckendorf broke himself rerouting.

( _Find another way, Percy. You can save them all. I'm counting on you. Don't let my life's work be in vain._ )

I closed my eyes and focused, reaching into the ground. It responded to my commands as readily as the sea, shaking just where I wanted it to. Kayla stumbled. The arrow flew past the dragon's head and disappeared into the cloud cover.

Except now the dragon was about to turn Clarisse's siblings into strawberry jam.

I screamed in frustration, launching forward. I hadn't always been the most dexterous person alive, but I learned not to laugh at gymnasts after the billionth time I ended up in a compromising situation that would have been a lot easier to escape if I invested a little time in finesse rather than brute strength. I vaulted onto the cabin with a concave rooftop and dropped inside to duck over into its personal armory. I grabbed a spear with the vague memory that I'd already demonstrated an aptitude for it.

I flew out the door in time to see Clarisse yell vengefully when she watched one of her sisters get thrown into Cabin Four, engulfed by the fire.

"For Ares!" she bellowed, throwing Maimer over her head. It crackled with electricity.

But Clarisse wasn't glowing red this time. Ares hadn't given her his blessing. If she tried to take on the automaton, she would die.

I tripped her with another concentrated tremor and raced forward. On a whim, I slashed the spear across one of the dragon's toes. Its claw rolled sideways. It roared in vengeance at me as everyone screamed at me to run, but I stumbled back and looked up at it, hoping, praying.

( _C'mon, Hephaestus. Mr. D said you didn't want this to happen to me. Prove it. Help me save this dragon. Help me preserve your son's memory._ )

The light behind the dragon's eyes dimmed for a moment, then brightened. It creaked at me in a rhythmic, structured way, but I didn't understand it. Then it stumbled back in something of a daze toward the forest.

Everyone stood stock-still for a moment, staring in shock. Then Annabeth wandered up to me with a scowl. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?" I stabbed the spear into the dirt and took in the carnage. Several injured campers, sprouting everything from broken bones to third degree burns. Three demolished cabins. One, to my brief glee, was Apate's.

"You…the automaton just  _stopped_ when it saw you." She looked me over. "I've never seen a child of Hephaestus look like you before, but you're undernourished. Looks can be deceiving."

I wanted to laugh—loudly, hysterically, and uncontrollably. Any universe where I had the brainpower of a son of Hephaestus was extremely foreign.

Then I noticed: everyone was staring above me.

I looked up with a flash of fear—Poseidon  _couldn't_ claim me again, could he?—but there was nothing to be alarmed for. I wasn't glowing. It was fine.

"What are you all looking at?" I demanded.

Annabeth tucked her dagger away and crossed her arms. "Most gods would have chosen that moment to claim you. It's dramatic, it's public, and it's fitting. It would have made perfect sense for Ares, Hephaestus, or even  _Athena_ to recognize you as their child from that little display. You've been here too long not to be claimed already."

I sneered at her. "Maybe I'm a disappointment."

She scowled. "I've no doubt." She huffed. "Whatever's going on, I need to deliberate with the other camp heads. Clarisse, Nico, you intact?"

But Clarisse had Nico by the collar. "You fucked up my move, you little shit!"

I frowned. Nico smacked her hand aside. "What are you talking about, Clarisse?" He didn't sound amused by her temper.

"I had that fucker dead to godsdamn rights 'til you botched it! What the fuck was that damn geokinetic bullshit, anyway?"

Nico blinked at her. "What are you talking about?"

Kayla ran over. "I felt it, too."

Nico turned on her. "Okay, none of you are making sense."

"Nico didn't sabotage anybody," Pollux said, coming over to rest a defensive hand on Nico's shoulder. "He wouldn't do that."

"Those arrows are  _extremely_ rare!" Kayla screamed. "Each one costs almost a hundred drachmas, but it delivers one  _hell_ of a blast. I could have destroyed its circuitry!"

"And I could have electrocuted it to Tartarus!" Clarisse screamed.

( _Welcome to your living hell…_ )

My heart hammered against my chest. Nico was taking the fall for my desperate attempts to save the dragon. I should have known people would point their fingers at him for the flukes.

Nico threw his arms up. "Okay, whoa! I have no idea—"

Annabeth jogged over. "Nico, was Pollux in any danger?"

"I lost sight of him for a minute, but—"

"Maybe you panicked," she said. "You accidentally caused a couple tremors because you were scared he'd gotten hurt."

Nico frowned. "What? No. I have better control than that, Annabeth."

"Neither of us thinks straight when we're scared about each other, babe," Pollux pointed out softly. "You gotta admit you've done some  _dumb_ shit to save me."

Nico sighed. "I would have noticed." He looked at Annabeth. "Even if I did somehow lose grip on my powers, I would have known I'd used them."

Annabeth frowned. "Will!" The head counselor of Cabin Seven jogged up. "Check Nico over. Make sure he's not dealing with any health problems. Clarisse, Kayla, you know he never would have sabotaged you deliberately. There's some kind of mistake going on here."

Kayla grumbled, but drifted away. Will steered Nico toward the infirmary.

Clarisse looked at Annabeth. "We gotta shut this fucker down," she said.

Annabeth nodded. "Agreed." She looked over. "Jake! Care to stand in for Nico while we figure what to do about this curse?"

Jake Mason, another buff son of Hephaestus with a painful resemblance to Charles Beckendorf, winced and wandered over. "You think that's a good idea? I mean, all of us are a little—"

"You're the foremost expert on this thing."

"Yeah, because I figured out a fourth of  _one_ of Beckendorf's biggest equations!" he cried. "I haven't got a fucking clue what to do here!"

I watched the argument unfold with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Annabeth sighed. "You were Beckendorf's favorite brother," she said sadly. "I don't think he'd ever let this curse hurt you, no matter how angry he is at us."

I stopped and stared at her in shock as she led Clarisse and Jake away from everyone else with a bowed head. People started to dissipate, chattering amongst themselves.

Sam ran over. "What happened? Everything—"

I crouched down and grabbed her shoulders, talking quietly but fervently. "There's something I have to check on. Will you be okay for a couple hours?"

Sam frowned. "What's going on? I'm scared."

I hesitated. "I need to talk to someone. Just…watch yourself, okay? It'll be okay."

Sam held herself and nodded. I kissed her forehead and slipped off into the shadows.

~1~

It took an extensive amount of Mist to reach the forest without someone spotting me. I clung to the darkest parts of it, wandering deeper and deeper while praying I wouldn't encounter that dragon again. I wasn't sure how many times that "remember me" routine would work before it got fed up and roasted me.

Once far enough in, I took a deep breath. I patted my pockets down, only to come up without any suitable offerings. I growled and rolled my eyes.

I remembered what I'd given Hera and reached for Emily's knife. "Lord Hades," I intoned with closed eyes as I unwrapped my arm. "I offer you—"

"Don't you dare," a familiar, stern, fatherly voice said.

I opened my eyes and smiled at the god blending into the shadows like they were all one in the same—because they were. "Hello again, Uncle."

Hades solidified as he strode forward. I used to fear and hate him in equal measure. My first true encounter with him, he'd held my mother as ransom and attempted to imprison my friends and I in the Underworld, claiming the Master Bolt for himself. Enlightening conversations over these recent years shed greater light on his motivations. Still, his dark eyes glinted with the kind of ruthless, shrewd intellect that helped Adolf Hitler bring half of Europe under his thumb and terrorize the globe.

"Blood sacrifices are barbaric practices, nephew," he said disapprovingly. "Giving your own blood to appease us…" He shook his head.

"I don't have another sacrifice," I said apologetically.

Hades smiled kindly. "Call for me," he said. "Whenever possible, I will come."

I hesitated. "I'm sorry, about what I said to Nico."

He nodded, bowing his head. "You had no choice. I know that." He raised his head to look me in the eyes. "My offer stands, you know. Both you and the girl would be welcome in my palace."

I almost cracked and accepted, but I took a deep breath, stopping myself. "And I'm grateful for that, I am." I tucked Emily's knife away. "But so far, nobody is looking in the right places for anything about me, and if I can fulfill my deal with Hera, I can give Sam the life she wants without starting a war."

Hades hesitated. "If someone uncovers your identity, though…"

"I'll have to kill myself to save them," I concluded.

His eyes turned even sadder. "You brought my son the happiness my children have only yearned for since I started having them," he said. "Too many gods owe you too much to allow these senseless atrocities to continue."

I shook my head. "Forget it, Uncle," I said. "I've come to terms with this. I need to ask a favor, though."

He nodded. "Go on."

"Can I speak with the spirit of Charles Beckendorf?"

He stopped. "That…is a serious request, nephew."

"I know, Uncle." I shrugged. "I need to ask him some questions. I'll make it quick."

Hades nodded and turned. He held out his arm. A crevice appeared in the ground. A pomegranate materialized in his hand and he dropped it in. "Arise," he chanted. "Spirits of my kingdom, inhabitants of the lower realms, your lord summons you. Appear. Bring to me to the spirit of Charles Beckendorf, son of Hephaestus and martyr of the Second Titanomachy."

I cringed at "martyr."

A familiar, wispy shade drifted out of the crater. Beckendorf flashed Hades a toothy grin with a laugh. "Hiya, Lord Hades. Didn't expect to get  _you_ summoning me…" He glanced around awkwardly. "Here?"

"I called you as a favor for a friend of yours," he said.

Beckendorf frowned. "Wait, Nico's powers on the fritz? That can't be good."

"Not Nico." I stepped forward.

Beckendorf stopped and stared at me. "Oh…oh no," he breathed. "When Nico showed up asking about you, I…I was hoping you weren't really dead, but…"

I frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"The illusions we erected to protect mortals from too much knowledge only work up until a certain point," Hades explained. "When Nico went to the Underworld in person in the hopes of resurrecting you and his sister, he discovered your spirit was not there. You hadn't yet been killed, either."

I cursed in Ancient Greek. "Beckendorf, what did you tell him?"

"I mean…not much." He frowned. "Just that…what do you mean, you weren't dead yet? Percy, what's going on?"

I sighed. "We won the war, but Hera and the other Olympians decided I was too dangerous to let stay at Camp Half-Blood. They banished me. Faked my death. I died a year later while on the run."

His eyes widened. "And then you…?"

I nodded.

Beckendorf glanced at Hades questioningly. I didn't follow whatever they talked about, but it left Beckendorf deflated. "I…okay." He looked at me. "What did you need?"

"That dragon you fixed," I started. "It's gone rogue again, started attacking the camp. It sounds like some kind of curse hit your cabin." I hesitated. "They're saying it was you."

Beckendorf looked horrified. "What? No! Never! I would never curse my own family!"

"Then what's going on?"

Beckendorf shrugged weakly. "I-I don't know, Percy," he admitted. "That dragon should have at least stayed stable. Even if it never started protecting camp again…"

I ran a hand through my hair. "Okay," I said. "Okay, I've got two months to try to get to the bottom of this and fix it. I won't let them destroy him unless there's no other way, Beckendorf. You worked too hard on him."

"Camp's more important," he stressed. "I…maybe I can…" Beckendorf paused. "There's this woman down here. She says her son was finishing equations that sometimes stump me at age, like, seven. He's still alive. Maybe…Lord Hades, you think you could help me get him to Camp Half-Blood?"

Hades smiled. "Gladly."

Beckendorf turned back to me. "It won't be immediate. I'll do my best to get him there sooner rather than later. I'll talk to his mom. Buy camp as much time as you can."

I nodded. "I swear on the River Styx."

The sky cracked with thunder.

Beckendorf sucked in a breath. "Gods willing, this works out. Good luck, Percy. You're gonna need it. Anybody with their ear to the ground can feel something bad's coming. Something big."

I wanted to tell him not to worry. Nothing was wrong. No more apocalypses wanted to sweep through the mythological world. He could enjoy paradise without wasting his afterlife worrying about us.

I knew better.

But I didn't show it. "Enjoy Elysium, Beckendorf," I said, smiling. "Kiss Silena for me, and, uh…say hi to everybody else, too. You know the ones. Luke, too. Just…tell him there aren't any hard feelings with me, and I'm sorry I didn't see a way to save him before it was too late."

Beckendorf glanced nervously at Hades, who nodded. "I…I'm sorry, Percy," he said. "Luke got reborn."

( _"Think…rebirth. Try for three times. Isles of the Blest."_ )

I took a deep breath and nodded. "No. No, that…that's good. He said he was going to try for that. He deserves it."

Beckendorf nodded. "We miss you, man. Let's hope the Fates stop screwing you over, huh?"

I smiled. "With any luck." I waved. "Goodbye, Beckendorf."

"Goodbye, Percy."

And Beckendorf was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious what you guys are theorizing is coming in this. The groundwork has been laid (in part) for what's coming. So many plot threads. So many ideas. It's gonna be a fun ride (I hope).


	14. Her Love Was a Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a mild edit to an earlier chapter that will be important. In Chapter 3, Percy asked Calypso if she knew about "Chaos' firstborn." I changed that to "Chaos' forgotten son." It's a subtle but important distinction.

AFTER THAT DAY'S EXCITEMENT—no one ever quite recovered from the status quo interruption of a gargantuan metal dragon stampeding through camp—people milled around distractedly until the campfire dismissed. As everyone filed out of the amphitheater in irregular clumps, I glanced back at the fire; it burned low, a deep purple. A little girl, about eight-years-old, had appeared to tend the flames. A nondescript brown dress made her look rustic and out-of-time.

I checked ahead of Sam and me. The others didn't look very attentive, muttering to each other as they drifted toward the surviving cabins for sleep (Nike would be staying with Athena, Demeter in Dionysus, and Pollux loudly declared he would be sleeping in Cabin Thirteen for no other reason than he wanted to). I paused Sam. She looked up at me with a beleaguered sigh.

"What is it this time?" she asked tiredly.

I winced. "Sorry," I said. I motioned at the girl. "You see her?"

Sam frowned. "She…wasn't there before."

I chuckled. "She's Hestia. I think she wants to talk to me."

Sam shrugged. "Okay, I guess. I'll save a bed for you." She hugged me around my middle before running off into the nearest conglomeration of people.

I drifted back to the campfire and sat down beside Hestia. A paranoid glance over my shoulder drew a quiet laugh from her. "You're under my protection, Percy," she said. "They won't notice us."

I relaxed and pulled a knee up against my chest, draping an arm over it. "How are you, Lady Hestia?"

She smiled at me. "Content," she assured me. "I do not think you can say the same for yourself, however."

I rolled my wrist flippantly. "I'll live." I hesitated. "How long has the dragon been a problem?"

"Since shortly after the Second Titanomachy."

"And people seriously think  _Beckendorf_ would do it?"

She hung her head. "They believe him discontent with their failure to save you."

I flinched and growled, plucking a blade of grass and flicking it into the flames. "This cannot be happening," I muttered. "First Luke gets a bad rep 'cuz the Olympians got pissy about my gift, now  _Beckendorf_? I mean, at least Luke makes sense."

"In their defense," Hestia began, "none of them hold him in contempt."

I scowled and looked at her. "But they think he cursed them?"

"Most think they deserve it." She looked at me. "No one took your death well."

I deflated and held out my hand. It resisted the heat for a minute before the skin started to redden and sting. I watched the process with sick fascination, only vaguely aware of the pain lacing through my veins.

"Please stop that," Hestia interrupted patiently.

I snatched my arm away with a short shake of my head. "Sorry," I said.

Hestia stayed silent a moment. "Nico di Angelo has helped a few people cope with similar struggles," she told me. "Perhaps—"

"That would just make me sympathetic and you know it," I said. "I need them to hate me with a…a  _passion._ I can't have them thinking I'm just some misguided guy who needs a little more help than others."

"And if this deal you made with my sister follows through?" she asked. "Young Samantha does not deserve to learn about your problems in such a way."

I winced and ran my finger over the burns. They hurt, but not as much as the warning. "I'll get help up in Canada when we move there," I said. I didn't know whether I was telling her the truth or not. "They've got systems up there, right?"

She nodded.

I shrugged. "There's your answer."

We sat in silence for a while.

Finally, I asked, "Any ideas on how to completely put people off?"

Hestia laughed musically. "Am I the goddess to ask such a thing, Percy?"

I chuckled. "Nah. You're not." I hesitated. "Does anyone suspect anything?"

"Nothing that endangers them," she said, smiling at me. "You've done well, hero. I only wish you did not have to do this as well as you do so much else."

"I don't do hardly anything 'well,' Lady Hestia," I said, sighing. "If I did, we would be having a very different conversation right now."

She smiled and stared into the fire. "Perhaps the flames could show you that conversation."

I frowned at her funnily, but she didn't elaborate on the strange comment.

A thought struck me. "Uh…Lady Hestia?" I started hesitantly. She hummed. "That dream I had…the fire that looked like it was coming from a  _person._ "

"Yes?"

"Was it real?"

She hummed again. "You know better than anyone the lens of reality is too malleable for such a simple question."

I flexed my fingers. "Was it a demigod dream?"

She didn't answer.

I groaned and hung my head. "If I'm getting those again…what's going on, Lady Hestia?"

"Ancient forces are stirring," she said sadly. "They have stirred for quite some time. Now comes their hour." She looked at me. "And, perhaps, yours as well."

"I had my hour," I said. "Been there, done that. You can check 'completed a Great Prophecy' off my bucket list. 'Sides, how am I supposed to save the world if I can't even tell the people I love who I really am?"

"You couldn't do that anyway, Percy," she said, looking at me.

I frowned deeply. "What do you mean?"

"You have to answer that question for yourself before you can answer it for them."

Then, all of the sudden, Hestia was gone.

~1~

I remembered this moment. I didn't want to relive it. So, of course, my dreamscape made me.

Stupid, naïve, nineteen-year-old me had my arm wrapped around a pretty, lithe redhead who rested her head on my shoulder. Neither of us were in great shape, wearing discount clothes we mostly shoplifted off outdoor thrift store racks. Our multitudes of regular fights had left us tired and scraped up. I covered my scar with a sheen of thin Mist to make this chat easier to have.

Justice of the Peace Vanev looked between us nervously. I didn't let his rational dubiousness dissuade me, continuing in my explanation.

"Look, ma—I mean, sir," I corrected quickly, "we really love each other, but we're not in any position to get an actual home with the money to  _actually_ elope. We'd rather not wait forever and then never say I do, so…I mean, couldn't you just pull out a sheet of lined paper or something for the effect?"

"Wouldn't it better if I helped you get help?" he asked. "You both—"

" _Please_ , sir," my pseudo-fiancé, Francesca Geary, pleaded, breaking away from me to lean over his desk. A daughter of Demeter, she didn't have the same weaponized sexuality daughters of Aphrodite tended toward, but she knew how to milk the distressed girly routine. I suppressed a smile. "You know it would take years if we were really,  _really_ lucky to straighten out and raise the money we'd need. Maybe one day we can get married for real, but…" She wandered back over and took my hand. "Can't you see how much we love each other?"

Vanev softened and nodded, sighing. He pulled out a sheet of normal, lined paper alongside a couple pens. I almost broke up laughing, leaning into Francesca's ear to whisper conspiratorially, "Should I see if Riptide can be a  _real_ pen?"

She giggled sharply and swatted my arm. "Oh, you." She looked at the Justice. "You think you could say some of the…stuff? You know, the vows? Just for effect?"

Vanev smiled. "Of course. Could I have your names?"

I hesitated and glanced at Francesca. She waved me on encouragingly. "I…would rather not say mine. We'll go with Eric?"

He nodded and looked at Francesca. "Francesca Geary," she said, wrapping an arm around mine and snuggling close.

Vanev looked at me. "Eric, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, 'til death do you part?"

I cupped Francesca's cheek and beamed. "Abso-fucking-lutely."

Francesca arched an eyebrow and flicked me in the forehead.

I laughed loudly. "I mean,  _I do_ ," I amended.

Vanev repeated the vows for Francesca, and she said, "I do."

The Justice motioned at the paper. "Sign your names, then."

I messily scribbled "Eric" on the paper, stepping back enough to let Francesca write her piece down. She glanced back at me. "Well?" she prompted. "Don't you want to watch me pseudo-legally become your wife?"

I laughed and stepped closer, leaning over to watch.

She picked up the pen.

She uncapped the pen.

She spun and tried to stab me in the trachea with the pen.

I yelped, diving out of the way a second before it was too late. The Justice screamed as he scrambled for his phone to call the police, but Francesca slammed his lamp onto it before he got the chance. He fell backward.

"Fran?" I asked fearfully, easing to my feet. "Fran, whatever's going on, this isn't you, okay? You're…something's controlling you. You just have to fight it."

Francesca laughed wickedly and turned on me, pulling her knife. "You gullible fucking asshole," she said, clicking her tongue. "I didn't even have to  _try._ "

I stumbled back into the wall. "What are you talking about?"

The knife glinted in the light as she tilted it. "My name isn't Francesca Geary," she said. "It's Emily Richardson. And my mother is  _not_ Demeter."

My heart stopped. "I…what? But—"

" _All_ children of Demeter have some kind of green thumb, you  _moron_ ," she told me with a sharp guffaw. "Have you ever seen me do well with  _any_ plant?"

I shook my head hopelessly. "I…I… _why_? But—"

"Because I needed to get close to you," she told me, flipping her knife into the air with a casual ease and catching it. "You've made a lot of very dangerous people  _very_ angry."

My heart sank. My face slackened. "You're one of Kronos' soldiers."

She choked on a laugh. Her pale blue eyes glittered with malice. "You  _wish_ ," she told me plainly. "One of those amateurs, you'd take them out in a heartbeat. Me? I'm another league entirely, baby." She flipped her hair.

I shook my head. "Then…then  _what_?  _Who_?"

"In English?" She shrugged. "The Coalition of Sacred Atë."

I clenched my fist. "And who's Atë?"

"One of Zeus' daughters," she said, smirking. "She tricked him into swearing his son would one day become god of all men, and he cast her down from Olympus in a fit of characteristic rage. A few decades later, she started recruiting disgruntled half-bloods, a few infants she raised in her image—to sew discord and ruin."

"And you're her daughter?" I demanded, disgusted.

She laughed loudly. "Oh, wouldn't  _that_ be just lovely?" She waved her hand. "No, my mother is Apate. Goddess of deceit?"

My eyes watered. "Then everything…"

"Everything I said and did was to kill you, yes," she confirmed. She paused. "Although how would you ever know if  _that_ was true, either?" Her eyes sparkled.

White-hot anger, fanned by the sting of betrayal, ignited in my stomach. I threw myself at her with a broken war cry, drawing Riptide in one smooth motion. She ducked aside like I hadn't even tried, immediately throwing me on the defensive.

The best knife-fighter I'd ever sparred had been Annabeth, but I put even her through her paces after a couple years. She freely admitted, along with the rest of camp, that I was the best swordsman in a hundred years next to Luke. Not many people lasted very long against me. Fewer could win.

But Emily was winning.

Worse yet, she didn't even look like she was trying. She used her surroundings against me, throwing me into retreat every few moments. By sheer dumb luck, I managed to disarm her with a yell, but when I attempted to follow through, Riptide froze over a centimeter from her neck.

She smirked. "You can't do it, can you?"

My entire body shook. "You used me," I strangled. "You made me love you just so you could  _kill me._ "

"No hard feelings, babe," she said, pouting at me. "You've got no  _idea_ how much money they're paying me to take you out. Really, it's all business."

" _Business_?" I choked on a sob. "I loved you!"

"And isn't that the best part?" She simpered. "If it makes you feel better, I will always treasure those steamy nights we shared."

"We never slept together, you slut," I growled. "Thank the gods for small favors."

She shrugged. "Your loss, babe." She guided my sword away from her neck without a moment's indication of fear. "Well, if that's how this is gonna go, I'll tell you what. You get to live for today. Hey, keep my knife while you're at it!" She kicked her fallen weapon over to me. "That weird little design you like to look at funny sets people like me out from the heroic types like you. Something might rub off on you."

I tightened my grip on Riptide. "I'll never be like you," I vowed.

She arched an eyebrow. "Swear it on the Styx?"

Somehow—to my coldblooded terror—I couldn't make the oath. Tears cascaded down my cheeks.

She giggled. "Face it, babe. It doesn't take all that much to turn somebody like you into somebody like me. You're halfway there already."

"You're wrong," I insisted.

She clicked her tongue. "Keep telling yourself that." She winked and sauntered over to the door, nudging it open. She glanced back at me. "Fair warning: I  _never_ let any of my targets get away. You're the first, and that's 'cuz I think you're fun. But I will finish what I started someday." She waggled her fingers at me and skipped out.

I looked back at Vanev, face twisted in pain. I raised my hand and snapped my fingers. "You didn't see a fight or hear anything about Greek Mythology," I said as the Mist distorted reality around me. His eyes glazed over. "I hesitated to sign the paper and she got angry at me, then stormed out. Just another lover's quarrel."

He nodded. I shrunk Riptide down and scooped up Emily's knife. I stepped outside in time to see her climb onto the elevator.

I had no problem taking the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should know: I hate flashbacks. The classic form of cohesive, coherent scenes that took place in the past? I feel like every story I use that in loses dramatic tension when I fall back on those methods, but it's basically impossible to write this baby without falling back on them every now and again. You had to know the story with Emily, which meant I had to tell it in a flashback. I wanted to use any other method. I couldn't.
> 
> This will go down in history as one of my least favorite updates, but it still continued developing the story, so…I'll work with it.


	15. To Be Psycho or Not to Be Psycho

CABIN ELEVEN HAD ALREADY EXPLODED BY THE TIME I WOKE UP.

Here's a few important details about Camp Half-Blood: to maintain fairness and equality between cabins, a randomly chosen inspector ranks each one according to overall cleanliness. That system works for the most part, but it has its pitfalls: first off, things like "cleanliness" tend to get subjective after a certain point. If you have two perfectly dusted, spotless cabins, the deciding factor becomes aesthetic. Then, of course, you have Cabin Eleven's age-old dilemma: fifty-thousand people live there, and none of us know what "clean" means.

The brief period I stayed here when I was eleven demonstrated its remarkable ability to turn into a pigsty in a matter of hours. Shoplifted junk food ended up scattered over the floor in the approximate time it takes you to sneeze. Stains from all manners of health-averse garbage sank deep into the floorboards and comforters. Hermes' children and their guests had therefore developed the rational system of panicking every morning to make things as tolerable as they could.

And it was absolutely hilarious.

I propped myself back against the wall—I'd gotten the bunk above Sam's—to watch the pandemonium play out below. Garbage, stolen goods (both personal and commercial), clothes, sheets, and anything else flew through the air with the precision only the truly hysterical could produce (well, them and Apollo freaks).

"This is bullshit!" Aaron, a sixteen-year-old, screamed. "Meade's so wrapped around my little finger! Why did she have to get sick?" He snatched a pillow with a suspicious amber stain on the cover and threw it into the closet to hide it.

"It's a conspiracy, I'm telling you!" Johnna yelled back at him, catching an airborne  _Glade_ can before it broke her nose and spraying it everywhere. That chemical perfume smell singed my nose-hairs and I gagged. "Drew wants to go Cersei on our asses and rule Camp Half-Blood, one nitpicky critique at a time!"

I arched an eyebrow at the allusion. That I knew of, Circe only ever had a special contempt for men with no higher aspirations of world domination. [1] Still, knowing Silena's least favorite sister was coming didn't reassure me.

Silena Beauregard encountered fundamental ideological objections to her slightly younger sister, Drew Tanaka. Whereas Silena believed in love's potential for good, Drew believed in love's potential for control. She thought Aphrodite represented toxic affections used like weapons—win someone's love, then demonstrate your superiority by breaking their heart. The more prominent and influential that victim, the better to please Aphrodite. The scariest I had ever seen Silena get had been that day when Drew attempted to charmspeak me into falling for her; I'd been shocked of my woozy daze by Silena's shrill exclamation before she hauled Drew away from the perfectly curled hair.

Worst yet, Camp Half-Blood determined cabin counselors by seniority, and not by the length of time they had been a camper. Silena had only been a couple months older than Drew, securing her position as counselor. Unless one of Cabin Ten's inhabitants had returned from a successful quest, that meant Drew very likely had control of it.

A soggy slice of pizza disappeared under a pile of dirty clothes. Sam joined in on the chaos with giddy laughter that brought a smile to my face. A few more minutes passed where everything was like a whirlwind, and then the door opened.

Guy hid an empty  _Twinkie_ box behind his back and spun toward the front. Everyone else just stopped dead and stared at the beautiful Asian girl wielding a clipboard like a weapon of mass destruction, orderly fingernails painted pink. Glossy ringlets framed her slender face. Her plain orange tee and skinny jeans managed to look alluring. She prowled into the cabin in  _heels._ This was a training camp, and the crazy person walked around in literal  _heels._ I shuddered.

Drew clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You all can do better than  _this_ ," she purred as she swept her hand expressively over the room. "This is the poorest cursory clean you've ever done."

"You see that much trash?" Sergine demanded proudly.

The entire cabin hissed like she'd just invited ruin on their heads. In a way, she had.

Drew clicked her heels over the floorboards up to her and guided her chin up with her deadly fingernail. She sighed sadly. "Such wasted potential," she said. "You could be a beautiful girl, you know that? A touch of makeup, some better-fitting clothes…you'd be a knockout, honey."

Sergine's face, to my horror, contorted in a deep emotional pain. I shifted forward with my hands clenched at my sides. I wasn't sure what trigger Drew just tripped, but her satisfied smirk she did.

The voices in my head rose to a relentless clamor, each one demanding Drew pay for whatever she'd just done. I didn't argue.

Drew patted Sergine's cheek and started to step around her, but the spike on the back of her shoe happened to catch on a small puddle of water. Her foot kicked upward. She smacked hard into the floor with a grunt. Everyone cried out in alarm.

And I leapt off my top bunk, landed with a muffled  _thud_ before stalking over to her. I tilted my head and smiled cruelly. "You ought to be careful," I sneered. "Footwear like that can cause pretty serious accidents."

Drew held her head, groaning. She opened one eye to look at me, but it widened in utter disbelief and she launched upright. I stepped back, a little unnerved, but then Drew recovered with a gag. "Oh,  _honey_ ," she said. "There isn't enough foundation in the whole world to make you pretty again."

"That true?" I asked, crossing my arms. "'Cuz by the looks of it, you're  _wearing_ all the magic in the whole world, and you still make me nauseous."

Sam giggled sharply, covering it with her hand. Murmurs rang out through the onlookers, some of them sounding awed by my gall. José muttered something that sounded like, " _Burn._ "

I hesitated. The spectators watched approvingly; they liked that I'd had the guts to stand up to a camp bully and put her in her place. They respected me. That was dangerous.

( _Make her an example._ )

I almost listened, but I stopped myself. That was a voice. Namely, the one I dubbed "Mini Torchy" after its tendency to encourage torture and suffering. It didn't speak up as often as the ones that, say, wanted me to kill people or destroy Olympus, but whenever it did make itself known, it was never a good idea to listen to it.

( _No one would ever trust you if they watched you hurt her until she begged for mercy. You would never be suspected. No one would know._ )

The argument swayed me. My eye twitched. I felt myself sense around inside her. The blood rushing through her veins thrummed with power. Plasma was almost exclusively water—over ninety percent. It would be so easy to make it bend to my will, make her—

( _No, nephew._ )

I closed my eyes and reasserted control. I needed Camp Half-Blood to keep me around the entire two months and  _not_ lock me up as a danger to society. Besides, Sam did not need to see her big brother torture a woman in front of her. Using my powers to do it would absolutely do the opposite of what I wanted.

Drew had started pushing back up to her feet, but I grabbed her by the collar. "Let's get something straight, you and I," I half-purred. "Nobody throws their weight around when I'm in the room, because I will always—and I mean  _always_ —take the power for myself."

That did the trick. Everyone's impressed expressions fell. My defense of Bailey no longer looked like a kind action; rather, an attempt to prove myself the scariest person in the room. A few even looked afraid of me.

But Drew only smiled and patted my cheek. "We'll see about that, baby." She tore away from me and marched out, sashaying as she went. She glanced back at Travis over her shoulder. "Cabin Eleven gets dish duty." She blew him a kiss, and everyone groaned.

~1~

When it came time for Cabin Eleven to gather in the arena for a lesson, I hovered near the fringes with my arms crossed, weight cocked to the side. The refreshing shower we'd taken  _dead last_ gave me a quality energy boost, and I ran a discount razor over my chin to lose the scattered tufts of fuzz growing on it. With weeks of filth scrubbed away, I felt human again.

It was a different feeling.

Anyway, the others grumbled about getting stuck with Cabin Seventeen—Nike. The most competitive campers next to Ares, although sometimes, even the war god's children knew when to lay off. The teenagers cleaning under their fingernails with daggers had no grasp of "enough's enough." One of them, a seventeen-year-old guy who looked closer to a college sophomore, wore a grey wife-beater (disgusting name for any article of clothing, that) with a spear tattooed on his right bicep. He swung around a foreign sword cockily, eyeing me while he did. Thin blade, curving slightly at the end. I hadn't spent much time studying the swords of other cultures, but he brandished that thing with confidence.

His arrogant lip-quirk informed me I would be sparring him soon.

Connor noticed him watching me and sighed. He walked over with a spear. "This should be good quality," he said. "You're gonna need to fight with your strengths against him."

"And you think that's my strength?"

Connor smirked a little. "I get wanting to keep an air of mystery, but nothing stays secret in a place like this." He shoved the spear at me. "That display o' yours when those harpies attacked you two, that's something."

I gripped the spear. I could have gone along with the assumption—it was what I wanted people to think—but I figured my persona might be more consistent if I argued against it a little, tried to guard my secrets. Hopefully. "I grabbed the first thing I could," I snapped. "I was about to die."

Connor arched an eyebrow. "Nobody's gonna use your skills against you, Eric. Just relax and kick Ulysses' ass. He gave Victor a black eye last week." He nodded toward his little brother, who did have a fading bruise over his left brow.

I doubted Victor much had it coming, so I was all geared up to whoop Ulysses' butt into the next age, but I couldn't seem like it. "I'm not your defender."

"We're a family," Connor told me pointedly. "You may not be used to having anybody else on your team but Sam"—she glanced over to where she admired a rack of weapons with the keen eye I taught her—"but things are different now. You've gotta get used to a world where you're not going it alone anymore. It's give and take. We'll watch your back if we know we can count on you to watch ours."

I scowled at him anyway. Connor relented, wandering over to Sam to help her pick something out.

Meanwhile, Clarisse took the front. "'Kay, faggots!" she called. I resisted the urge to gag at the slur; she just said it the same way army movies did (from what I remembered), but I suspected her and Nico had gone toe-to-toe once or twice over it. "Sounds like we've got a couple greenies to get initiated, so today's gonna be a special kinda Tartarus for you all."

( _Every nerve-ending burned, so much that even His gentle exhale against my cheek hurt worse than bathing in the Styx had. I sobbed in agony, but the gentle, torturous caresses didn't stop. Only after centuries of the same anguish did I stop pleading for mercy for him, slumped against the wall with my head hung in defeat._

_Kampê, the only jailer of the Pit the myths acknowledged, grabbed me by the shoulder with what I imagined to be a gentle hand for her. I still ground my teeth in pain. Icy shackles closed around my wrists. The she-demon cranked the lever. The chains yanked my arms forward. I strangled on a scream._

_I couldn't hear the whip crack over my own screams._ )

"Kid!" Clarisse barked, and Sam glanced over while she favored a dagger. "I want to see your worst. You don't show anything any more mercy than you would a monster, read me?"

Sam nodded firmly. "Who am I fighting?"

Clarisse snorted. " _Who_? Nah, kid, you're way too green." She motioned at a nearby dummy, straw brains sticking out the side of its bumpy head. "Kill that for a while."

Sam cried out in objection. "Nuh-uh! I can  _totally_ —"

"Don't argue with your superiors, kid. Get on with it. I'll keep my eye on you."

Sam passed me on her way to the inanimate target, looking aghast. I suppressed a smirk even as I flashed her wink. She didn't look impressed.

"Stolls, you're with Adamoli and Bayer." She motioned at two deceptively slender girls who grinned at the pale pranksters. One held two weighty swords, though, so underestimating them wasn't an option.

Clarisse continued pairing people up; most Cabin Eleven kids ended up fighting their own siblings with a couple exceptions. At the end, only Ulysses and I stood without opponents.

Clarisse glanced over at me and sneered. "Well, oops. Looks like we've got an uneven number. Guess you'll have to fight Ulysses here." She clapped him on the shoulder. "Make him hurt," she told Ulysses without subtlety.

Ulysses cracked his neck and slid into a stance. "With pleasure."

He didn't bother with niceties like introductions, bows, or any such thing; he just charged me with a battle cry, slashing across my torso.

Now, I'd already done some thinking about this. My trademark impulsivity chanced exposure to anyone who knew me, and I didn't want to look too competent with any weapon right out of the gate. I had already done damage fighting the harpies and saving the dragon, but it might be salvageable. I made sure to get out of his way with something resembling proficiency, but it wasn't the smooth dodge I wanted to sidestep him with. It was clumsy. I lurched, stumbled a little, and got my balance before he had a chance to lob my head off.

Ulysses showed no mercy, raining blows down on me with a frenzy. I held my own with enough proficiency that someone would think I had a knack for the spear, but enough struggle not to look  _too_ good. I couldn't tell you how believable I was, but Ulysses' smug look as he continued assailing me made me think he believed himself the clear winner of our match.

I started to pretend to wear down, give Ulysses his chance to claim the match, when everything went wrong.

( _One, two, three and four. Death's the only art of war._ )

I screamed, knocking Ulysses' sword aside when he went in for the finishing move. I kicked him back so hard, he crashed into a weapon's rack, eyes wide with disbelief as I bore down on him, spear readied to bury itself in his neck.

He only just parried in time, rolling out of the way. I didn't let up. People screamed at me to pull back before I killed him, but that was the whole point. I slammed the butt of my spear into his sternum and he doubled over. His sword skittered across the ground. I went in for the kill.

( _Nephew, no!_ )

The spear-tip froze against his breast, having just broken the skin. Ulysses stared at me in horror. I panted, holding his gaze, fighting to maintain a fragile hold on my sanity. The wicked rhyme continued in my head, but I shut it down and pushed back.

I wanted to get out of there. I  _needed_ to get out of there. I couldn't risk another match with that  _thing_ chanting in my head, but I had to salvage the situation. I sneered at Ulysses. "Never underestimate a psychopath," I told him.

The entire arena—and several onlookers—stared at me. Clarisse, on the other hand, didn't care for my show of power. She wrenched the spear from my grip, tossed it back at the rack, and glanced at Ulysses. "You okay?" she checked.

Ulysses nodded, still stricken.

Then Clarisse wrenched my arm behind my back and started shoving me away from the arena without bothering with the audience. We passed a lecture hall, and she shouted over at it, "Chase!"

A few moments later, Annabeth appeared. Clarisse shoved me into the shadows hanging between cabins, drawing her sword and waving it around. Nico faded out of the darkness within seconds.

He scowled at me. "What did he do now?" he asked, sounding unsurprised.

"Clarisse, what's going on?"

"He damn near murdered Ulysses!" she screamed. "Fucker  _admitted_ to being a damned psychopath."

Nico huffed. "Knew it."

"That's enough, both of you," Annabeth said shortly. "What happened  _exactly_ , Clarisse?"

"Pitted him up against Ulysses to teach him a little humility," she said. "He was getting his ass kicked until  _bam_ , tables turned, and he almost ran him through the heart."

Nico shoved forward, eyes wide. "He—" He turned on me. "That's it. My father's going to deal with you." He grabbed my arm.

But Annabeth spoke up. "Clarisse, did anyone have to pull him away from Ulysses or did he stop on his own?"

"His own, but—"

Annabeth laughed. "You're all overreacting." She sighed and turned to me. "Clever ruse, Eric. Clearly, you have a good head on those shoulders, luring your opponent into a false sense of security. That's a good tactic. I approve." She faced Clarisse. "Just because you somehow find strategy to be dishonorable, Clarisse, that doesn't mean anyone who uses it is unhinged."

"He  _called himself a psychopath_ ," Clarisse insisted.

"Exaggeration for the sake of the audience," she guessed. "If you're this worried, would you mind testing him, Nico? If you do find dangerous Antisocial tendencies, we'll act from there."

I didn't know whether to protest Annabeth's defense or let it go. I hated the forgiving way she handled this, like she knew I could be trusted not to fly off the handle, but I didn't want to get kicked out or locked up, not before the thirty-first of October.

"He's not a psychopath," Nico said confidently. "He might well be capable of murdering people without remorse, but he exhibits too much emotion. He hasn't got any charisma to speak of. The relationship he has with Sam doesn't show any signs of being exploitative in nature. However disgusting and loathsome a cockroach he is, he's not that kind of disgusting or loathsome."

"Better?" Annabeth asked Clarisse.

Clarisse growled. "I'll fuck you the fuck up if I ever catch you pulling bullshit like that again, got me, Eric?"

I shrugged, tearing away from Nico. "Duly noted—assuming you can beat me." With my fighting proficiency exposed, my best chance would be cockiness. Clarisse's snarl told me I pissed her off successfully. "Now then, I'm guessing the inquisition is over. Can I go now?"

"Give Cabin Eleven some space," Annabeth told me, walking over. "They'll be alarmed by what just happened. Take a walk." She smiled, but it had an edge; Annabeth hadn't given up on figuring me out, and until I gave her a comprehensive puzzle that made any sense, she wouldn't.

I was just terrified any puzzle I gave her would lead her to one conclusion I couldn't afford to let her draw.

"Aw," I said, pouting my lower lip tauntingly. "The wittle babies scared of lil' ole' me?"

"That's it, you little—"

But Annabeth pushed Clarisse back and turned to me. "There are kinks in any armor forged, Eric," she said, "even the emotional kind.  _Especially_ the emotional kind. I'll figure you out soon enough."

Something strange filled the air—a warm, fluttery feeling. Had Annabeth put on lipstick? She didn't need it. Her mouth was as gorgeous as the rest of her without help. I could kiss those lips and be happier than if I'd gone to Elysium. Maybe I could just—

Annabeth flew away from me, eyes wide in horror. We stared at one another for a long moment while Nico and Clarisse stared at their superior in shock.

Annabeth recovered with as much composure as she could, smoothing her shirt. "Run along now, Eric. You're fine."

I got out of there in a hurry, and I had one destination in mind: Cabin Ten.

It was time to scare the fear of the ocean into a goddess born from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted that last part to be a dose of comedy with Percy resenting Clarisse for being Clarisse, but it didn't end up working. Hopefully, I find a good place to insert a healthy bit of humor. This has gotten heavy. I don't want it to be a constant source of despair. Well…sorry.
> 
> (1) I don't watch the show, but I think one of the bad guys on "The Game of Thrones" is some chick named Cersei? I was guessing. It's something I heard, and I know that show is pretty popular. Percy would have missed it, and I legitimately thought the name was spelled "Circe" myself before I looked it up. It's an honest mistake. I think? I apologize if I got my facts wrong and that is not, in fact, a comedic moment.
> 
> Next chapter: Percy kicks Aphrodite's ass.


	16. I Court Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, have a fluffy chapter. This is the closest to unfettered fluff you will ever read from me, I promise.
> 
> Also, massive, heartfelt, unfettered gratitude to Rynna Aurelia, whose invaluable input lately gave me the answers I needed to shore up continuity errors throughout this story. She is beautiful. I adore her. Go read her stories right freaking now. Pretty much everything from here on will have something of her fingerprint on it, even if it's just her giving me the go-ahead or pointing out the senselessness of a creative decision.

NO PASSERSBY NOTICED ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY ABOUT THE PREENING FASHIONISTA SITTING IN FRONT OF THE CAMP DOLLHOUSE, turning her face this way and that to examine her makeup in the rhinestone-studded mirror she held. I imagined a healthy dose of the Mist prevented campers from paying too much attention to the way her features refused to settle on one appearance.

I tried to ignore the way she kept looking like either Annabeth, Calypso, or—Hades no— _Emily._

She glanced my way as I marched up. She raised two manicured fingers and snapped them together with a grin. The air around us rippled into a dome.

"How many gods am I going to have to punch in the next week, Aphrodite?" I demanded as soon as I was sure I wouldn't be overheard.

She giggled. "I didn't know you'd punched anyone recently." She pushed up, trying to get me to hold her mirror for her. I smacked it aside. She pouted. "That's not very nice."

"I'm not in a nice mood," I growled. "What was that bullshit back there with Annabeth?"

She smiled broadly. "Oh, you noticed my touch, did you?"

I lunged forward and grabbed her by the collar. "Let me make something clear," I snarled in her face. "This is hard enough without you throwing curveballs into everything I do.  _Back. Off._ "

Aphrodite waved her hand and I found myself two feet back, too far away from her to menace her any more. She straightened her blouse. "You hardly need my help," she said with a playful giggle. "Your love life became Olympian primetime  _ages_ ago, and I didn't do a thing."

( _You'll choke on your games, slut._ )

I crushed my eyes shut and pressed my palm against my temple. The cacophony reached unrivaled heights. I fought back as hard as I could, but it brought me low. I sunk to the ground, sobbing in pain. My head pounded. My heart beat erratically. I needed to get Hephaestus to crack open my skull, alleviate some of the pressure. I  _had_ to get some relief before I lost what was left of my sanity.

Someone touched my shoulder. My mind cleared. Warmth rushed through my veins like a good swallow of hot cocoa in the wintertime. For a moment, I forgot about the pain and struggle of these past few years. I took my first real, deep breath. I relished the unmistakable feeling of safety curling around me like a cocoon.

I picked my head up to see Aphrodite smiling at me. None of her usual mischief tainted the expression. She brushed my hair aside. "You've done so well," she said. "I'm as proud of you as your father is."

I shoved her back, fighting tears. The comforting feeling washed away. "He has a shitty way of showing it."

Aphrodite frowned and rose. "Godly politics are…complicated," she said. "We do the things we do within reason, but those reasons often don't make sense to mortals."

"Care to translate?" I snarled.

She watched me warily. "Eros wanted me to tell you something," she said finally.

I stopped, frowning. " _Eros_?" I glanced around. "What does he want?"

"He wants you to remember all love is valid," she said, "and to understand that not all love will be returned as purely as it is given."

I scowled. "What does that mean?"

"That's all I can tell you. I have to leave now. I shouldn't have come here at all. Hera will be angry."

"You're older than Hera," I reminded her. "Why are you afraid of her?"

Aphrodite smiled. "I promise everything will make sense someday, Percy. I just can't promise you'll like what you find."

Then, just like the others, she was gone.

~1~

A couple days later, people were lining up for a canoe race.

I felt a twinge of disappointment. I remembered back when camp events included exciting flirtations with death, like Capture the Flag, but I supposed we couldn't risk that with Beckendorf's dragon deranged and on the loose. I still had no idea how to solve that problem. I hoped his genius brother would get here soon.

I loitered a few feet back from the lake to be safe. The last thing I needed was some overenthusiastic naiad running up to me and flirting. Sure, naiads tended to flirt with every guy they met, but I worried they might call me "my lord" and blow the whole thing out of the water.

No, that wasn't intentional. Shut up.

I let my eyes drift over the crowd, trying to pick Sam out from the rabble. She had gotten a little more autonomic since arriving here, I noticed, and even had a couple friends independent of me to hang out with. Still, I liked to keep her close as much as possible.

I spotted her around the other side of the lake, arguing with a boy maybe a year older than her with a fresh cut on his cheek. I took a moment to recognize him. I couldn't remember his name, but I was pretty sure I'd seen him at the Janus table with a slightly older kid. I frowned at the exchange. It didn't look like a mild disagreement; if I knew my little sister at all, she was close to tears.

I hurried over and wrapped my arm over her shoulder. "What's going on here?" I asked easily, smiling at the boy.

He scoffed. "What, you need your big- _not_ -brother to save you? That it, Foster?"

"No!" Sam yelled at him even as she shrunk into me.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I don't think I caught your name," I said.

He crossed his arms and puffed out his chest. "Titus. Titus Baas."

"Are you bullying my little sister, Titus?"

He snorted. "What, you gonna beat me up? You're all talk."

I crouched down with his level. "No," I said levelly. "I don't hurt little kids. I definitely don't hurt little kids who clearly haven't grown up enough to display a modicum of maturity about things."

He wrinkled his nose. "I'm mature!"

I arched an eyebrow and glanced back toward the water. A thought hit me. "I'll make you a deal, Titus," I said, turning back to him. "You're going to race Sam across the lake. If she beats you, you can't make fun of her ever again."

He snorted. "That's easy! And when  _I_ win, she takes my dish duty for the next year!"

Sam's eyes widened.

But I just squeezed her against my side. "Like I said, immature." I shrugged. "If that's what you want, then it's a deal."

He pumped his arm and raced off to grab a canoe.

Sam turned to me. "What are you  _doing_? You know I can't balance things! I barely avoid falling on my face most of the time."

I smiled. "Sam, remind me what lakes are made out of?"

She frowned. "Uh…is this a trick question?"

I shook my head.

Then her eyes widened again. She hissed, "You  _can't._ Someone would notice! You said bad things would happen if—"

"I can be very subtle," I told her, resting my forehead against hers. "Just make it look believable out there. No one will be any the wiser."

Sam chewed her lip. She glanced. "Well…I  _do_ wanna rub my triumphant victory in stupid Titus' face…"

I smirked. "Exactly. Grab a canoe."

She beamed and raced off. I watched from a distance as Sam and Titus explained the deal to Connor, who had taken charge of organizing everything. He eyed Sam like he didn't think it was such a good idea. He crouched down to her level, probably trying to talk her out of it, but she got that stiff back and high chin look she always had when she decided she had to do something. I smiled. Connor relented and issued them both a canoe, letting them go against no one but each other. He gave Sam a few tips on how to avoid tipping over. It wasn't great advice, by the looks of it. It would do the job in a pinch if you were talking to someone with more experience canoeing, but Sam would capsize for sure if she had nothing but Connor's advice to go on.

Connor blew his whistle loudly. Sam and Titus charged the lake, shoving their canoes into the water and jumping in. Titus had a head-start then, nothing I could do about that. Then they hit the water.

Titus quickly grew frustrated with the way he had to fight with his paddle to get it to cut through the water. I guess it didn't like bullies. Meanwhile, Sam sped toward the far side of the lake like bullet, laughing wildly. I made sure to give her a few close calls to make the victory more believable. We were almost home-clear, Titus left in the dust.

Until Annabeth materialized in front of me.

I yelped in alarm, stumbling back and clutching my chest. I stared at her. She smirked and waved her Yankees cap through the air. "Invisibility," she explained.

I scowled. "Yeah, well, I have a kid to cheer on, so—"

But I didn't have to worry. Sam glided to the other side of the lake without a single hiccup, now that I wasn't deliberately messing her up for believability. She launched onto land with a whoop.

I beamed in pride. Sam performed a rather unsportsmanlike but adorable victory dance as she pranced around, waiting for Titus to catch up.

Sam just stuck out her tongue at him. Then they shook hands. To my surprise, they wandered off, sniping at one another in a way that reminded me of my earlier years alongside Annabeth.

Annabeth hummed. "She's as good as…" She took a deep breath. "I caught a little bit of that conversation you had with Titus."

My heart started pounding.

( _You fucking idiot! You did it! You killed her! You killed everyone! Might as well just get it over with now!_ )

I swallowed. "Oh?"

( _Please don't know. You can't know. Please don't know._ )

"Not the words exchanged, really," she said, shrugging. "Just the way you handled Titus making fun of her. I put together a little from the exchange."

It took all my self-control not to melt in relief. "What? Gonna lecture me that I shouldn't deal with bullies making my little girl feel bad?" The derision in my voice wasn't faked.

She laughed musically—no! Not musically! Not—damn you, Aphrodite! "Not at all," she assured me. "I wanted to commend you on handling it better than most would have."

I blinked.

She rolled her eyes. "You're good with kids," she said. "You may not care much for anyone above a certain age, but kids, you're careful of. It's obvious you and Sam have a tighter bond than just…protectiveness over a child you met, but that doesn't mean you'll hurt a younger camper, even if they're hurting her."

I shifted. "What's your point?"

She smiled. "You want us to believe you a monster, Eric, but you're not. You're just a lot more complex than anyone wants to give you credit for."

"I think I'm pretty simple, actually," I said without thinking. "I don't like you, I show you just how much. Kids are just too stupid to deserve that."

She snorted. "You're not convincing anyone," she said. She considered me. "Maybe I don't have to figure you out." I faltered. She smiled even wider. "Hopefully, I earn your trust enough someday, you'll tell me yourself."

She walked off. I couldn't help but stare after her, dazed.

Then I swallowed. "I'm sorry, Wise Girl," I said under my breath. "This is one riddle I can't let you figure out."


	17. The Truth Heals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been...absent...of late. I swear I have good reasons. (The author notes at the beginning and end of this update are long.)
> 
> It started because I reached an awkward moment where I realized, "Oh, I haven't plotted out half of what I need to plot here yet. Whoops. Better fix that." Pacing is a quantifiable bitch; you cannot tell me different. Then I...kinda...spilled a bunch of water on my laptop?
> 
> Yeah... I did that. Whoo!
> 
> Incredibly special thanks to Rynna Aurelia, my amazing beta/editor/source of emotional support who was kind enough to take this here draft and upload it to both FFN and Archive of Our Own for me. I have no idea when I'll have a computer I can use to upload again, so until further notice, expect uploads to be very sporadic, even more than usual. Also, this chapter probably wouldn't exist at all if she hadn't availed some pretty killer plot ideas to me. Suffice to say, you guys would have such a shit story to read if she didn't exist.
> 
> This angel also made me the cover attached to this bad boy, and it's absolutely mouth-watering.
> 
> So. Are you guys looking for an enthralling, fresh take on an old troupe? Do you bemoan the countless "time-travel" stories on this site with so much potential that get abandoned or miss amazing directions to take things? Do you salivate at the mouth for realistic depictions of mental health that don't beat you over the head with how broken the characters are? Are you floundering in a drought of half-decent content, thirsting for a drink of something more? Did The Heroes of Olympus series leave you foaming at the mouth because you know how good it could have been before it left you sobbing next to the bonfire into which you chucked The Blood of Olympus?
> 
> Saunter over to Rynna_Aurelia's killer Percy Jackson & the Olympians time-travel fix-it story, _Hold Tight and Pretend It's a Plan,_ where Gaea's devastating victory in the final days prompts the Fates to send our beloved Percy Jackson screeching into his twelve-year-old body to undo half-a-decade of harm—except Percy isn't the only one who remembers the future that can never be again...
> 
> Onto the chapter, which—holy shit—might even amuse you a little bit. I know. I wrote humor (you know, before it gets painful again). Brace for the Four Horsemen, guys. They're coming to a town near you.
> 
> Please tell me I'm not the only one who just thought of Now You See Me?
> 
> _Hey everyone, Rynna Aurelia here. I know this note's already long, but I wanted to give you guys a quick hello and thanks for all the fantastic support you've given this story (It really means a lot to both of us) —as well as a quick WTF at thein273 for embarrassing me with gushing over HTPP above. My friend, you're insane and I love you._
> 
> _Anyway —on with the show!_
> 
> Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, gender dysmorphia, self-harm.

SOMETIMES, pretending I liked the spear best of anything got exhausting.

At first, the mild hindrance working with a weapon besides my preferred one only furthered the ruse I had been an untrained orphan all my life with a surprisingly instinctual knack for something. Other times, someone well-meaning like Annabeth Freaking-What-Will-It-Take-To-Make-You-Hate-Me Chase would insist I broaden my horizons. As much as I loathed archery, I would have been fine if she'd handed me a bow. But no.

She pulled out a goddamn _xiphos._

"What the actual fuck is that?" I heard myself screech.

Annabeth snorted quietly when I leapt back with more agility than a cat. "It's a sword," she explained, expression taut with amusement.

At least _someone_ was enjoying themselves.

"Get it away from me!"

Annabeth arched an eyebrow. "Eric, any warrior needs flexibility. I'm impressed with your spear work. Your hand-to-hand is ruthless but very effective. You have experience with a dagger. The sword is your weak point."

( _No, my weak point is persistently tolerant blonde women who only lose their characteristic brilliance when it_ matters most of all.)

I smiled icily. "I'm good, thanks."

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly. Take the damn sword."

I flashed unnecessarily back to Hoover Dam for no halfway-decent reason. I scoffed at her insistence, swinging my spear around flashily, and faltered when I saw the amused glint in her grey eyes shift to a hardened storm of irritation. I begrudgingly forfeited the javelin back to the rack and accepted the sword.

The weight wasn't right. Then again, I had never held a sword my whole life that sat in my hand like Riptide. I could compensate in a pinch. After more than a couple terrifying nightmares in which Riptide refused to elongate into its full potential again, I started drilling myself with other swords, struggling to overcome the challenges inherent with a blade that didn't fit perfectly in my grip. Riptide would always outpace anything else I tried to fight with, but I could make do.

Except here—now—I couldn't let myself. I leaned into the imbalance. I depended on it to mess up my stance, throwing me off and mangling my grip. I listened to the way my body wanted to react to the offense. Even as my battle instincts screamed at one another to _compensate, adjust, pivot, tilt, just like that_ , I refused to grant them the satiation they craved. I _could not_ risk letting Annabeth see me fight the way she remembered me fighting. Maybe time had eroded her memory.

Or maybe my fighting style would pinpoint me as the deceased Percy Jackson faster than declaring I loved blue food. I couldn't take the risk.

Annabeth started perusing the available swords, weighing each one carefully before moving to the next in the line. She ended up settling on a longer sword when I just spotted a _xiphos_ tucked inexplicably in the middle of the weapons' rack with a hilt that looked perfect for her hand. I twitched, resisting the urge to motion to it, because that would mean I had enough experience with swords and _her fighting style_ to know exactly what kind of weapon would suit her best, and why was she even _looking_ at swords, she hated them, was she _crazy_?

( _Pot, meet kettle._ )

I afforded a glare at my own thoughts. The greatest drawback to be a professionally sarcastic little shit with a not-so-mild case of schizophrenia was the fact my admittedly few, less-objectionable voices liked to turn my own wit against me.

Thankfully, regular visits with Mr. D reined in my worst symptoms. He made clear his magical stabilization would yield diminishing returns the same way the antidote always did, but two months shouldn't be impossible to monitor. Bad days were simply par for the course, of course. Wasting energy on curbing my depression or PTSD wouldn't do anyone any good. Still, the milder problems still caused trouble, like the one I didn't even realize until Travis reminded me Cabin Eleven was finally up for showertime and I just stared blankly back at him (hygiene just isn't a concern when you're too preoccupied not starving or getting eaten or something else unpleasant). My occasional struggle with emoting—I overheard Nico drilling for an abnormal psych exam with Pollux by running through the symptoms of schizophrenia and how to treat them; he'd called that "negative symptoms," so I guess—scared Sam shitless some days. I hated to put her in that position, but honestly, sometimes feeling nothing was infinitely easier than lying to everyone when I remembered how much I loved them.

I could barely believe I'd made it almost two _entire_ weeks without any devastating hiccups. I had even started to hope I might pull this off.

Cue the hysterical mental laughter.

"—ic? Hello? Earth to Eric? Can you even _hear me_?"

I snapped back to the present, blinking harshly. Annabeth smirked at me as she stuck the sword in the ground long enough to smooth out her ponytail. "ADHD?" she asked bemusedly.

_Among other things_ , I didn't say, instead scoffing. "No sleep." It wasn't a lie. Memories of fiery rivers and white-hot metal crops woke me in a cold sweat every time I tried to close my eyes.

"Which makes the ADHD worse," she translated. She yanked her sword out of the ground smoothly, stepping into my guard. I leaned back, but she closed her fingers so gently around my wrist, I felt myself relax. She adjusted my grip, showed me the basic stance to take with a sword. She nudged my feet closer together with her own, angling them just right. Instantly, my instincts breathed a sigh of relief. "How's that?"

"It's—" ( _Don't fuck up._ ) "Fine. It's fine."

( _What did we just tell you_?)

Okay, so maybe I needed to swing by Mr. D again soon.

"We'll start with footwork," Annabeth said. "If you're stuck in a fight with a weapon you're weaker with, your best strategy is to dodge rather than attack. The angles with a sword are different from spearwork, smaller. Follow my lead."

Have you ever had to do something _so completely natural_ from such a mind-numbingly basic standpoint, all you can think about is how much chucking yourself off a skyscraper would be more enjoyable than this? Yeah, the next two hours of my life consisted of that; me trying to look _naturally bad_ at a sword, Annabeth praising my aptitude, me fucking up the next maneuver to a criminal degree, Annabeth being _so damned patient why gods are you patient_?

Then, at _long_ last, she stepped back. "That should be good for today," she said. "The sword is obviously your weakest weapon, so I expect you to dedicate at least one hour per day to practicing with it. You're looking a little dehydrated right now, though. Rest up for lunch."

I barely stopped myself from chucking the _xiphos_ at the rack from a yard away. I set it back in place, purposely maintaining as much attitude as I good. "Yeah, well," I said as though I had shit else to add.

Annabeth chuckled, rolling her eyes fondly. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to let down those walls once in a while." ( _No. It would kill everyone else._ ) "I understand not trusting people easily, Eric, I do, but that's no way to live. It will destroy you." Her eyes darkened with old grief. "It's destroyed a lot of people in the past."

( _There._ )

I tensed. I knew what the voice was pointing out, what it wanted. The concept wormed its way into my mind, thick and slimy and horrible. I already alienated Nico ( _like that was ever hard for you to do?_ ) by targeting his fatal flaw, that first day out of the infirmary. He only dealt with me in short, angry words now, favoring me with deadly glares every time he felt me enter his orbit. And his flaw was so easy to hit-too easy. Grudges. Just make him angry at me once— _really_ angry—and he'll never look at me twice.

Other people, though—others weren't as simple, as natural a target. _Hubris_ had brought so many ancient heroes to their knees, but it took such a specific opportunity to target in them that it always did that from inside. Sewed discord in their lives, left them riddled with insecurity until they snapped.

That didn't mean there weren't ways, though. That didn't mean I didn't know things that could destroy the people I loved—to save them.

Always to save them.

( _I have to save you._ )

"Aw," I drawled, pouting out my lip at Annabeth. She jolted, narrowing her eyes. "Is poor wittle Annie all sad 'cuz she can't make nobody stay?"

Annabeth's face wiped studiously clean. "What did you just say?"

( _I'm so sorry._ ) "Well, you're this bigshot architect, right? Designed Olympus, blowing the plebs back at university outta their seats?" ( _I hate myself more than you ever could._ )

Annabeth's fist clenched at her side. "Yes." Her tone had turned to ice. ( _Good._ )

I shrugged. "Well, it's sounding to me like you're determined to be a brainy bitch to everything 'cuz nobody ever bothered to stick around. What, broken home? Parents couldn't be bothered to pay attention 'cept when you did _so good, look at your report card, sweetie_?" ( _You're so much more than your mind._ ) "Hate to burst your bubble, ya know, really, but...big, tall, fancy buildings? Ain't gonna last forever. Even if they did, all anyone would ever remember you as was a name on a plague."

Annabeth held herself taut, barely composed, eyes shining. ( _Please don't cry._ ) "I don't need reminded, Eric," she said measurably. "I know I need interpersonal connection to matter as a person in a few decades." She stepped up, grey eyes burning through my own with pained confidence. "But you? The _moment_ you're not around to remind everyone why they hate you, Eric, they're going to forget your name. You're not only going to die, _hated_ , but you're going to die alone and completely, utterly, _hopelessly_ forgotten. The Fields of Punishment themselves could never compare to the hell you'll live when you realize not even Sam grieved you."

She shoved past me then, but not before I caught a glittering tear roll down her cheek. I watched her forge away from the arena, swallowing. I didn't cry.

I didn't deserve the relief.

* * *

I wandered like a shade through Asphodel, barely registering the lunch bell as it rang clearly through the valley. Bustling, excited bodies shuffled through Mess in crowds of variant sizes. I ignored them all.

Except for the loud, exuberant bark from a little ways away, the hulking wall of darkness bounding across the grass.

"There you are!" I heard Nico exclaim, turned to him to see him plant his feet shoulder-width apart, spread his arms, accept the crushing weight of an enthusiastic hellhound crashing on top of him. His loud grunt, the way the hellhound rolled over onto her belly, thumping her paw against the ground while he scratched everywhere.

I watched, eyes burning, heart shattering, as Nico loved my dog the way I never could again.

"Such a good girl!" Nico praised loudly. "Such a good, _big_ girl! You eaten any smelly ole' giants recently? Got a nice full belly? Yes, you do! _Yes, you do_!"

Mrs. O'Leary bounded up to swipe a tongue over his face. Nico gagged and laughed even louder.

And then her large, glowing red eyes turned, swiveled, searched-settled on me.

I froze.

Nico followed her gaze, curled protective arms around her neck, glowered at me with such exquisite hate, I wondered if his eyes alone could kill me. He barely had to shake Mrs. O'Leary to turn her attention back to him. He summoned a femur from the ground and threw it as far as he could.

Mrs. O'Leary bounded after it and I broke.

Have you ever held dry ice? That sensation of burning you can only get from that underlying numbness of _cold_? My entire body felt like that then, originating from where Emily's dagger pressed against my lower back.

My feet carried me away from camp-proper, into the woods. No one was supposed to step foot here, thanks to Beckendorf's dragon, but I didn't care. I staggered along the beaten path, dragged myself toward that spot at the creek where it all began.

(" _All hail Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon._ ")

But someone was already there.

Her long, strawberry blonde hair hung around her face while her body shook with violent sobs next to the water. She hunched over, on her knees, and I caught the glint of a steel switchblade beyond the veil of keratin as she brought it across her arm.

I threw myself down next to her. I didn't think, just ripped the switchblade away and tossed it out of her reach. She screamed in bloodcurdling frustration. Emotional anguish had weakened her, though, and I had no trouble holding her steady, angling her arms to study the dozens of lines, fresh and scabbed and scarred, carved there.

And once again, I didn't think, just thrust her hands into the creek with mine. I focused every scrap of energy I had. The water reached out to me with rejuvenation.

( _So tired, my lord! Let us help you._ )

"No," I snarled angrily. "Not me. _Her._ "

It fought me, even so. This wasn't natural. Only children of Poseidon healed in the rapids like this. Only children of Apollo and Ascelpius healed others. This was a union of power that could not be.

"I am your _heir_ ," I commanded it. "I escaped the bowels of Tartarus. You will not argue my will. _You will obey your lord._ "

She might have said something breathlessly. I didn't pay attention. My insides twisted up painfully. I cried out. She cried out with me when I squeezed her hands too tight. I didn't release her.

"Father," I intoned, "Lord over the seas. Earthshaker. Stormbringer. God of horses. Give me this strength. _Let me heal her._ "

( _My son..._ )

" _Now_!"

The dam broke. My energy poured forth, into the creek, winding back up her arms with a glistening sheen, washing away the blood and mending the wounds. They knitted together too slowly. I trembled from determination and exhaustion both, refusing to let it cease until not a single cut remained.

Then I collapsed forward into the creek, spent. My breaths came out weakly, barely fluttering over my lips.

Hands moved over me frantically, checking everywhere. Something slotted itself into my mouth, clattering against my teeth. My head tilted up. Liquid—oh gods, why did she have to feed me acid?—filled my mouth, rushed down my throat.

Gradually, my strength returned. I pushed myself up feebly and looked at my acidic savior. Finally, I used the advanced mental processes to recognize her: Sergine, one of the daughters of Hermes I lived with. Travis and Connor doted on her.

"Are you okay?" she asked, panicky. "Oh gods. Oh gods, I thought you were gonna die right in front of me. Oh gods. I thought Percy Jackson was gonna literally die saving my fucking life, and then _everyone_ would hate me, and oh—"

I gripped her arm harder than I meant to. She grunted. "I am not Percy Jackson," I told her sharply.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" she screeched. "You just...what you said...you're a son of motherfucking _Poseidon_ , and _fuck_ , you lied to _everyone._ Everyone thinks you're this crazy fucking asshole! _What the fuck_? And _Tartarus_? What the holy—"

"Look at me!" I shrieked, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. "No one can ever know what just happened here. _No one_."

"What?" She shook her head. "No. We have to tell them. They all—"

"If anyone from my past finds out I'm alive, the gods will level this valley!"

Sergine froze and stared at me. Neither of us spoke for a long time. The only sounds were the trickling of the creeks and the trilling of birds.

"What?" she asked finally.

I gulped harshly. "After the war," I said. "Hera...the entire council agreed I was causing too much trouble, being too disobedient."

She looked like she wanted to throw up in my lap. "They... _they threw you into Tartarus_?"

I flinched at the name. "The Pit," I corrected. "Around me...say the Pit. And no. They just banished me. I...I ended up down there for different reasons."

"That...that's why you're so fucked up." She shook her head. "No!" She surged to her feet with a yell. "They can't get away with this! They have to pay. We'll tell everyone. We —"

I shot to my feet in front of her. "The gods are the best option we've got!" I shoved her back a step. "They ruin individual lives, sure. But _everything else_ we could possibly give this world would torment _every single life._ Trust me, I know. I fought Kronos with everything I _fucking_ had. I watched countless friends die. The gods are complete shit rulers, yeah, I'm not going to argue, _but they're better than all-powerful tyrants._ "

Sergine just stared at me for a while. I brought my breathing under control and sat back down next to the creek. Sergine pushed up my jacket sleeve. "You do it, too." She wasn't asking.

I nodded. "It...it helps the voices," I said. "Quiets them. The panic attacks, too. Even the damned depression."

"Then why did you stop me?"

I looked around her. "Because I literally have _nothing_ ," I said. "Nothing except a little girl I _might just_ be able to give a real life to if I don't fuck this up. You've got an entire godsdamn camp worth of family who would do just about anything for you."

"Not if they knew," she murmured, hanging her head.

"Knew what?" I demanded. "Knew you hurt yourself? Sergine, there's not a person in Cabin Eleven who wouldn't take a knife for you. They'd lose their damn minds trying to make you happy again. Trust me. Besides, Nico—"

"Nico helps with the mental shit," she snapped. "This...this is different."

I softened and turned to her. "How?"

She shook her head and turned away.

"Sergine, please," I begged. "I almost died saving you just now. You fucking know I'd do it again in a heartbeat, but I think we'd both rather I not."

She closed her eyes. "I'm not their fucking sister," she growled.

I frowned. "What do you mean? Of course—" And then it hit me. (" _You could be a beautiful girl, you know that?"_ ) I sighed. "You're transgender."

"I'm _broken_ , that's what I am," he snarled. "Normal people don't think this bullshit. I just need to—"

"You need to go out there and ask people to change pronouns," I said simply. "You need to accept the help you deserve, so you stop feeling broken, and you need to recognize that you're just as valid with or without boobs, or whether you want them. I'm sure camp would kill itself working up the funds to help you transition, if that's what you wanted."

He stared at me blankly. "What?"

"Trust me," I assured him. "No one here will judge you. Just tell them the gender you identify as and how it's been making you feel. You'd be surprised just how accepting they'll be."

He gulped and settled back quietly. He stared down at the ground. "I'm guessing you can't ask for the same help," he guessed.

"Nope."

More silence. "They'd all fight for you, you know."

I chuckled bitterly. "Yeah. Yeah, I figured that out a while ago." I nudged him. "C'mon, man," I said, and he smiled a little at that. "This is our little secret. Okay?"

"Pretty big for a 'little secret.'" His smile was grateful yet pained.

"Welcome to my world."

After a while, he pushed to his feet. "We gotta head back separate, huh?"

"I need to be alone for a while."

He hovered a few feet away. "It's, uh...Sergius."

I glanced over.

"The...the male version of my name. It's Sergius."

I smiled weakly. "Can I call you Serge?"

He nodded.

"Catch you later, Serge."

He started walking away, gait measured and a bit pained. He faltered, though, risking a look back at me. "Don't kill yourself today," he requested. "Please."

I smiled at him, tears splashing down my cheeks. "I promise on the River Styx," I said. "I won't kill myself today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that."

"For how long?"

"Time."

And he left me by the creek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What exactly do you say to the guy who just saved your life after you find out his omnipotent family ruined his? Sergius sure as fuck couldn't tell you.
> 
> The later chunk of that, I just kinda wrote. It got the point across. I think it still delivered an emotional impact. I just really wanted to get this uploaded as fast as possible to fill you guys in on things and sate your fix.
> 
> The nice thing is, I still (at least) have means of responding to you all when you review these stories. Not much else, at the present moment, but I think I might go insane if I couldn't talk to you guys between uploads. You all make me so happy.
> 
> Just briefly —maybe to torture you, maybe to tease you, maybe just to give you stuff to speculate about —here's a list of all the planned installments of The Chronicles of Choice:
> 
> The Scarred Hero Trilogy:
> 
> The Forgotten Fear (In-Progress)
> 
> The Fiery Fiends (In-Progress)
> 
> The Siren's Song (Outline Stage)
> 
> The Chronicles of Choice Companion Novellas:
> 
> Death Is Not so Different from Love (written in Nico di Angelo's POV from the end of the Second Titanomachy to years later —In-Progress)
> 
> It Interferes with Being Nuts (guess who? —In-Progress)
> 
> The Warped Outcome Trilogy (sequel series to The Scarred Hero):
> 
> The Empty Sea (Outline Stage)
> 
> The Empty Forge (Outline Stage)
> 
> The Empty Prophecy (Outline Stage)
> 
> The Voyage of Heroes Saga (sequel series to The Warped Outcome):
> 
> Destinies Apparent (In-Progress)
> 
> Destinies Unhinged (In-Progress)
> 
> Destinies Revealed (Outline Stage)
> 
> Destinies Reconciled (Outline Stage)
> 
> Destinies Realized (Outline Stage)
> 
> Can you guys tell I suck at linear writing? *slinks off into corner to conspire*


	18. I Become Tyrant of the Bathroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To put all my cards on the table, this will be the last update for quite some time. Read to the end for what I can give you in the way of an explanation.

Chapter Eighteen: I Become Tyrant of the Bathroom

I COULDN'T REMEMBER THE WAY BACK.

It felt silly, after everything—my claiming, Luke's betrayal, and now Sergius' involvement in this delicate web of lies I'd spun. I should have known the path in my bones, followed it regardless of small things like  _memory_ , yet here I was, reality bleeding thin around me not unlike watercolor, trying to remember something so trivial, so basic. I could hear the raucous laughter of the gods now, clapping each other on the backs, sloshing goblets of nectar over themselves as they reveled in the inanity.

( _Do you remember when they needed you to save them?_ )

I massaged the heel of my hand into my temple, choosing the pathway to the farthest right of me. My voices chittered in my mind almost like mice until they ran together like a broken broadcast, indecipherable static offering an unwanted soundtrack to everything I even thought about doing. With this much noise in between my ears, it was easy to wish for complete, utter silence.

(" _The human mind is hardwired for patterns, Seaweed Brain. That cloud doesn't actually look like a lion."_ )

Annabeth had been in a bad mood the day she told me that, stressed over the billionth disaster preventing our allies from taking the advantage against Kronos. Now, though, I wondered if that was all my voices were: my sick brain attempting to sort out the static with patterned voices, even though there was no pattern in it. If I somehow trained my mind to stop seeking out patterns, would the nasty voices stop? Would I still hear people telling me to hurt my loved ones, sunder Olympus, kill myself?

( _You can't lose us that easy._ )

This was not the quickest way back to Camp Half-Blood. In fact, it would lead me to the ruins of Zeus' Fist, a landmark to our losses in the Battle of the Labyrinth.

I forged ahead.

( _Name your villains, little pet._ )

I flinched, rolling my neck to the left. I didn't acknowledge the voice; that would only empower it. I quickened my pace. External stimulation, I thought. It only became easier around other people—easier to ignore the voices, easier to ignore the hollow ache permeating my entire being.

(" _We need a shroud. A shroud for a son of Hermes."_ )

They'd replaced the rubble of Zeus' Fist.

A tall, glorious slab of polished obsidian, matte carvings—an Ancient Greek inscription, words painstakingly immortalized, followed by a hideously long list of names.

_Θυμηθείτε τους ήρωες που έβαλαν τη ζωή τους με γενναιότητα. Οι αναμνήσεις σας δεν θα εξασθενίσουν ποτέ._

( _Remember the heroes who laid down their lives with bravery. Your memories will never fade._ )

_Bianca di Angelo_

I recognized the handwriting. Nico himself had chiseled his sister's name into stone for demigods generations from now to see. (" _I hate you!"_ )

_Zoe Nightshade_

Thalia and the Hunters, I thought. If Nico carved Bianca's name, the mismatched handwriting here must have been each of her surviving friends. (" _Stars."_ )

_Lee Fletcher_

_Castor McGuire_  (" _I'm an alcoholic."_ )

 _Charles Beckendorf_ ( _The world was fire._ )  _| Silena Beauregard_ (" _Charlie...see Charlie."_ )

 _Michael Yew_  (" _Percy, the bridge! It's already weak!"_ )

 _Ethan Nakumara_ ( _A shattered blade, a tragic ricochet._ )

More names, most I didn't recognize, people I didn't know well. Then the last, each letter etched by a different hand. My heart squeezed.

_Perseus Jackson_

And nowhere, on any inch of the terrible memorial, did I see Luke Castellan's name. Anger burned in my chest.

No.

A part of me knew it couldn't work. I needed special supplies, a true chisel to carve into the hard stone, but I didn't have them, so I made do. I pulled out Emily's knife, kneeling before the shiny black facade and trying, desperately, to carve over my name with the name of the real hero. I couldn't get through.

I growled, yanking the knife back. I didn't know when hot tears started pouring angrily down my cheeks. I didn't care. They'd dishonored Luke. They'd dishonored the truest hero they had ever known, and why? For  _me_?

And then I was on my feet, screaming like a madman, and I didn't even know what I was saying until I started listening to myself. "—was right!" I crushed the fabric of my jacket in my fist, chest heaving. Why did everything hurt  _so much_? "Luke Castellan was right about everything! The Olympians are  _liars_!" I choked on a bitter sob. "They're cheats! They will do anything it takes to succeed!  _Anything_ to be unchallenged! Even if someone just wants to make the world better, they won't tolerate it! He was  _right_! The only way to save the world is to  _destroy them_! Rip them out! Rip them out by the  _fucking roots_!"

It didn't occur to me I wanted the gratification of a response until the heavens sat utterly undisturbed above me. Through the treetops, I watched clear blue skies brighten, as if the gods were defying my impertinence. Challenging my threat.

I chewed my lip, clenching my fist at my side. I should have let it lie, but I'd never been one to turn down a challenge. "It wouldn't take much," I whispered treacherously. "Kill myself, go back, offer Him my allegiance. I'd lead His army. I'd lead His army to your fucking doorstep."

Suddenly, the placid blue canopy turned a fierce, stormy grey. Rain poured from clouds dense with divine wrath, bypassing my natural defenses to water. I didn't need to will myself to get wet because, in seconds, my clothes stuck to my skin, dripping onto the muddy ground without remorse.

I closed my eyes and laughed, because the message was clear. I could even hear the rain singing with Hera's level, motherly tones.

( _Challenge us, son of Poseidon, and we will kill them all._ )

* * *

Camp Half-Blood would like me to kindly fuck off.

Of course, they had no idea  _I_ had been the reason for the sudden storm. They just gathered around under the Dining Pavilion, collectively reminding me of a colony of wet cats I'd seen by the apartment during the spring just before I started Freshman year of high school. Ponchos, courtesy of the cheerful Iris and Apollo kids, were getting passed out alongside dry clothes. I doubted I would ever witness a more pitiful and hilarious sight than Nico di Angelo, sopping wet, wrinkling his nose at a bright orange shirt as his boyfriend teased him relentlessly.

Then you had Cabin Eleven, stubbornly throwing a lowkey party while everyone else tried not to glare at them  _too_ strongly.

It didn't take long to suss out the reason, smiling brightly while his siblings paraded every manly article of clothing past him. Presumably with the help of a sympathetic child of Aphrodite, Sergius had cut off his excess hair, now wearing it in a surprisingly flattering blond wedge atop his head. He'd borrowed  _something_ to compress his chest, beaming like I'd never seen him in relief. Travis and Connor championed the celebration with bottles of soda and other contraband Chiron, at the front table, paid no mind to.

Travis and Connor also noticed me approaching first, stepping in front of me with dark glowers on both their faces. Maturity had helped set them apart better, but wearing such similar expressions, it became difficult to discern the eldest from the youngest.

"Eric!" Connor greeted with faux warmth. "Wonderful of you to join us. A few ground rules before you sit down."

"Sergine is now Sergius," Travis tagteamed, crossing his arms. "We're all doing our best to switch pronouns. You fuck up, you apologize. You mouth off with any outrageous transphobic bullshit, we murder you and Nico helps us dispose of the evidence."

That was about the moment Sergius noticed his two eldest brothers' absence from his side, glancing over with a vibrant smile that collapsed when he saw them intimidating me. He raced over as fast as his feet could carry him, and I recognized the flash in his green eyes; he wanted to defend me. He knew the truth and he expected them to accept it, even though he knew they could never know my motivations for any of this.

In summary?  _Shit._

"Okay?" I rolled my shoulders back. "It's a guy. Shocker. Can I sit down?"

Travis' eyes caught fire. He started toward me, hand twitching toward the sword resting against his left hip, but Sergius yanked him back desperately. "Whoa!" he cried. He pitched his voice down deliberately, but his naturally higher inflections still tinged the edges of his words. "What's the commotion? Guys, just let him—"

"Just some counselor stuff, Serge," Connor said sympathetically. "We'll handle this real quick and be right back with you."

Just to make things worse, apparently, Sam popped up like a daisy by  _my_ side. I didn't even hear her. "I didn't know threatening people counted as 'counselor stuff,'" she said, flagrant disapproval dripping from her voice.

I crushed my eyes shut and prayed, as hard as I could, to Hades. Without sacrificing anything to him, I had no guarantees he would hear; he was the busiest god. Still, I had to do  _something_ before this imploded around my ears.

Then I stalled. "So, what, am I switching pronouns? You're he now?" I spoke directly to Sergius, even though I knew the answer. I needed to buy time and I needed him to stop trying to make everything better.

He hesitated, gaze flicking between a murderous Travis and me. "I...yeah. I mean, I've always been a guy, but...that's...I'm presenting now, so."

I shrugged. "Whatever."

The shadows reverberated around a figure behind them. I didn't have any delusions about who would step out of them with a scowl on his face.

"What is going on here?" Nico's voice was icy.

"Eric is being an inconsiderate  _asshole_ to my little brother," Connor said immediately.

"Language," I corrected without thinking.

Everyone—Connor, Travis, Sergius, Nico,  _and_ Sam—turned to stare at me disbelievingly. I tried not to wilt under their gazes. Yeah, this was going  _great._

Nico approached me, atmosphere chilling as he neared. Sergius tried to bar his path, expression intense with desperation. Nico softened and touched his left elbow gently. "I need you to trust us, okay? We'll handle this with as little fuss as possible."

"Is there a problem?"

Oh gods, I thought. Not you too. You, I know I can't handle.

"No!" Sergius whirled on Annabeth, voice edged with hysteria now. Seriously, I was the one with a dangerous pseudo-genocide hovering over his head, and I was definitely the one with more at risk thanks to Annabeth Knows-People over here; where did he get off having a panic attack?

Sam picked up on that, too, eyeing me weirdly.

Annabeth faltered, reaching up to smooth her ponytail down again. As she twisted her hair tie tightly around the base of her blonde curls, she swept her gaze analytically over our six-way confrontation. "Congratulations, Sergius," she said diplomatically. "I heard from Nico about your decision to pursue transitional therapy. Chiron is already studying the details of how to procure your hormones." She looked at me. "I sincerely hope our son of Hermes here doesn't make you  _uncomfortable._ " Her voice didn't even attempt sincerity. "I understand, though, if his personal confidence in his masculinity without the assistance of additional androgens in his system emasculates you."

Nico coughed, quickly turning purple from his effort not to burst out laughing. I wanted to agree with him. As per usual, Annabeth had the  _best_ comebacks.

Sam wrinkled her nose next to me. I resolved to explain the genius of Annabeth Chase at a later date.

( _Take the defeat, nephew._ )

I almost collapsed in relief when I recognized Hades' voice, ringing clear through the din drowning out rational thought in my mind. My voices fell silent.

I opened my eyes, scripting a believable way to bristle defensively and concede her victory the way I imagined Smelly Gabe might have, only to meet grey eyes glowing with surprise. It dawned on me too late I had  _smiled_ —whether at Hades' intervention or her snappy retort, I didn't know.

And I had no idea how to recover from that.

Sergius surged forward then. "First!" His voice rang out soprano there. I winced in sympathy when I caught him flinch. He brought it down to a deliberate baritone. "It's never that simple, Annabeth." I gave a little ground. "I'm  _not_ confident in my masculinity. That's kinda the whole point. You know, why I'm depressed?" Annabeth's eyes flashed with apology. "And honestly, Eric not giving one whole flying  _f_...foxtrot"—even I fought to suppress a snort at that one; Sam failed entirely—"what's between my legs or how I feel any given day is a  _welcome_ relief. You guys are great, but you guys don't run around celebrating men  _born_ that way when it's not even their birthday."

Annabeth sighed, shaking her head. "Sergius, I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"No, you don't," he cut in. " _No one_ understands. No one here, at least. You can all do this great job  _trying_ , but  _trying_ isn't  _doing_. And I can't fault you for that. But don't you dare fault someone just trying to live his life because he doesn't conform to how  _you_ think someone should handle my gender identity."

Sergius' outburst had not only drawn a crowd, but also silenced them. Everyone stared in disbelief at the son of Hermes, and for a moment—an exquisite moment where my chest compressed into a small little cylinder—his green eyes turned blue. A jagged white scar carved its way down his face. Any classically feminine features dissolved into smooth angles and flawless tan skin.

For a moment—just one, brilliant moment—I had Luke back, and it  _killed me._

Annabeth's face twitched, and I knew she felt the same way. My younger self would laugh at me if he found out I almost broke down at an unwanted reminder of Luke Castellan the same way Annabeth had, but the years not only sobered me, they proved a very important fact: Luke had been right all along.

The gods were tyrants. They were just tyrants to the few while Kronos would ruin everyone.

And he wasn't the only one.

Now to get out of here. "Well, that was dramatic." I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "If you're all quite finished wasting my time, I'm tired. Excuse—"

"I am too," Sergius interjected, voice clipped. He glared at each of his many defenders. "Wait up."

I stood there for a while, staring at him. Sergius caught on to his mistake too late, but he didn't even look like he understood his mistake; he met my unbelieving expression with clear confusion.

"Whatever," I said, voice flat. I marched back to Cabin Eleven, only Sam and Sergius by my side, and made sure to knock shoulders with Nico on my way. Childish? Yes. Fitting for a bigot put in his place?

I actually didn't know, but immaturity felt like the way to recover a hopeless situation.

* * *

"I'm sorry about those a—anuses," Sergius told me once clear of the door. "They won't mess with you that way ag—"

" _Are you terminally stupid_?"

Sergius lurched, falling back into the wall as I whirled on him. Some part of me knew my anger had ionized the air around me. The rest didn't care.

"You almost ruined  _everything_!" I threw my arm out in the general direction of the confrontation gone wrong. " _Annabeth Chase_ , Sergius. Annabeth Chase is so completely brilliant, I had to  _hurt her_ , deeply, earlier today to  _save her life._  Nico di Angelo is no slouch intellectually either, and what do you do? You defend me. In front of  _them both._ "

Sam, eternally bound to my side, recoiled at my outburst. If I hadn't just had seventy consecutive panic attacks just now, I might have paused to notice the fear shining bright in her gaze, muscles tensed like a startled deer ready to run.

But then Sergius recovered from his shock and started toward me. "Okay, what I said—"

"-wouldn't have changed  _anything_ if you left it at that!" A water bottle on the nightstand closest to me exploded. Sam ducked with a screech. "But then you  _voluntarily came with me_. You asked me to 'wait up.' You acted like we were  _allies_ in this. Do you know how that looks?"

"Like you're a good person wrongfully persecuted?" he demanded heatedly.

"Exactly!" The plumbing burst. Sam yelped and dove under a bed.

Sergius stopped, giving a step to stare at me. He shook his head without a sound. My chest heaved. My heart pulsed in my ears. No one spoke.

"I can't even be Eric's friend, can I?" he asked finally.

"No," I said. My anger died. Water stopped gushing from the toilet. It still spurted pitiful bits of backed up sewage. "Eric has to be alone, Sergius. Alone except for everyone but Sam."

Sam sheepishly crawled out from under the bed. I glanced back at her, finally spotting her small, fearful body language, the tight way she wrapped her arms around her tiny frame. My heart bled dry. "That's crap," she told me, voice as meek as she was.

My eyes watered and I knelt. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. Especially not around you."

"I get it." Sam looked at me. "You need a friend."

" _You're_ my friend," I reminded her softly, smoothing her hair down. I wished I could thank Lacy, Silena's little sister, for helping her save it after the streets. We worried she would have to cut it all off when we settled down.

"No," she said. "I'm your little sister. I'm almost your daughter at this point. You can't confide in me. You need a  _friend_."

Maybe I would have argued, tried to tell her that  _no_ , I didn't need anyone else, she was the light of my whole world, were it not for the defiant sea crashing in her dark eyes. A storm held at bay

I sighed. Sergius stepped forward, resting a hand on my shoulder. "If there's anything I can do to make this up to you," he said, "name it."

I stopped, head snapping up. I twisted my neck around to look around at him. "How hard would it be for you to steal a hammer and chisel?"

Sergius blinked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am NOT transgender. I identity as nonbinary, but if anyone has personal experience that clashes directly with what I wrote here, do not hesitate to correct me. I did my best to hold true to the pain and turmoil experienced by people in Sergius' situation, but it's not something a person can estimate. I'm not ignorant, but some things are just hard to write accurately. I hope to God I didn't offend anyone here. If I did…well, please either review or PM me, whichever you're more comfortable with doing, but also read on to my explanation.
> 
> This hiatus will be longer than initially expected. A recent implosion overtook my life with gusto, and while I'm now safe and semi-stable, I've left much unresolved in my life that I need to confront like an adult. I have original work to actually write to any satisfactory completion for potential publication, but more than that, I have mental health issues to stop neglecting.
> 
> I don't think any of those are up for the gory details, but just suffice to say, I need to get everything in order before I can spare time for this. I still love this idea with all my heart. I want to continue it, and it's very unlikely I'll lose that drive at any point in the even distant future.
> 
> This isn't to say I'll stop writing this story while you wait. Hopefully, when I do come back, I'll come back with a mild bang: The Forgotten Fear finished, its companion novellas (of which there might be a third, I haven't decided) checked off the list, and The Fiery Fiends a fair ways completed. I've already knocked off several chapters of that bad boy because what is linear writing?, but I'd like to get you all to a really good place when I come back.
> 
> This also means that, for the moment, I won't really be responding to reviews the way I have been. I hate that, but I need to prioritize. It kills me to say it, but this site doesn't quite take priority over the many other things I have to do in my life.
> 
> As for my readers: if any of you have problems in your life you're aware need to be confronted, but you're afraid to face them, they will culminate in an even uglier blowout than you're scared of. Find someone you can depend on and find the resources you need to improve your life any way possible. Don't condemn yourself for "not being good enough," because "good enough" is a subjective qualification that will never yield any helpful results. Be realistic, but also don't tell yourself it's okay not to improve because of it. You're all extremely capable of making great lives for yourselves. Do it. Please. The longer you wait, the harder it becomes to dig your way out of the trenches.
> 
> Good luck, guys, and I hope, when I do update in a few years, you're all happy to come back. I know I will be.


	19. Plot Twist! Everyone Still Hates Me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm a tease.
> 
> I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say my life enjoys its snail's pace. While I wait for things to finish lining up right to move, you guys get to help me learn how the hell to fast draft. Most likely, updates will be of poorer quality, but you'll receive a lot more of them.
> 
> Eventually, I will disappear, and I'll warn you when I do. I promise to do my best not to leave you guys are some unholy cliffhanger when I do, but breathing down the cosmos' neck isn't making it move any faster and this damned story harasses my dreams.
> 
> (I love you guys, don't listen to me. You are the best fans I could ask for.)
> 
> And on that note: are you angels? I wholly expected to receive a lot of ungrateful reviews after this last update cursing me for leaving. Instead, you give me a lot of you all being supportive, understanding, and sympathetic. Please never change.
> 
> Sneak Peek of Death Is Not So Different from Love coming soon.

Chapter Nineteen: Plot Twist! Everyone Still Hates Me.

BY THE TIME CABIN ELEVEN CAUGHT UP WITH US, all signs of my plumbing-fueled tantrum were gone.

Sergius tossed all exploded water bottles in the trash. With a wave of my hand, the wet surfaces throughout the cabin, including the bedspreads and rugs, dried. The three of us didn't bother cleaning up the rest, knowing the others would chalk up any remaining mess to their own disastrous housekeeping methods, and after several minutes glaring at the bathroom, toilets still gurgling fitfully, Sergius pointed out we were standing in the middle of the closest thing to a frathouse Camp Half-Blood had; no one would question damage to the pipes, especially after Sam  _swore_ she watched Guy frantically flush a slice of pizza one morning.

After that, we lounged around. Sam took her job watching the window very seriously. I let my legs swing back and forth from my top bunk like a little kid, Sergius kicked back against his headboard with an old-school DS playing an annoying loop of game music while he cursed out the cops. I called him out every time he said something stronger than "heck," and he stuck his tongue out at me each time.

It felt so  _normal_ , I ached.

At least, until Sam squeaked and jumped up. "Incoming!"

I locked eyes with Sergius, a nonverbal argument raging between us in the few minutes before that door flew open with our audience. Sergius slumped in defeat, launching to his feet and throwing his DS down on the bed like it insulted his brother. "You wanna say that to me  _one more time_ , asshole?"

The door opened, Bailey freezing with her foot hovering over the threshold.

I pulled out Emily's knife and cleaned under my fingernails with it, kicking my feet up on the bed again. "Not my fault you got trouble listening." I flicked my eyes to him. "That's another strike, by the way. No cussing around my kid. Next time, I take body parts."

Leave it to my screwy psyche to take that casual threat and run with it, filling my mind's eye with dozens of dismembered corpses, people I loved staring up at me in horror as they clutched bloody stumps. Thalia. Nico. Paul. Annabeth. Mom— _oh gods, Mom_.

"What the fuck is going on  _now_?" Connor demanded, sounding painfully tired.

"Eric is a dick!"

"Strike seven," I sing-songed, examining my always-filthy nails.

"Fuck you!" I had to give Sergius credit; resolved to his task, he could act like this was the Oscar's.

"Can we  _please_ stop cussing around the kid the possible psychopath  _told us_ not to cuss around?" Simba, one of the quieter, younger kids—only thirteen, I remembered—pled.

I motioned toward him with my knife. "At last, someone speaks sense."

"Eric, what did you say to my brother?" Connor demanded, holding up a hand to Travis when he stopped forward with blood in his eye. He always had been a little less tolerant of people hurting his family, I remembered.

I matched stares with Connor. When had he matured so much? "Nothing untrue, I can assure you."

Travis pushed past his brother, grasping Sergius' shoulder. "Hey. What'd he say?"

I waited for Sergius to make up a horrible insult I probably could never have forced out of my mouth in real life, but he just stared at Travis for one moment, two. His shoulders fell, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "Who cares," he said. "Let's just get some sleep."

Sam glanced up at me. I resisted the urge to sigh in my own right. Sergius couldn't treat me with the ruthlessness he had to, and it sapped my energies enough maintaining this baseline awfulness. I couldn't pick up his slack.

( _Want help?_ )

Connor called lights out, the argument dead before it even started. Faint chatter erupted before it quieted, the florescents dying overhead and submerging us in darkness.

I wish I could say I had pleasant dreams.

~1~

A hooded figure knelt on a dais, arms spread, chanting. Blue torchlight illuminated his dark robes, casting malformed shadows over the cave walls. Somewhere out of sight, water dripped, keeping time like a metronome. An altar grew out of the stone floor in front of the figure, decorated with terrible images: men bound in chains, whips tearing through flesh, mouths stretched wide with silent, terrible screams, mothers sacrificing their own children. Familiar symbols—outdating even Ancient Greek—littered its façade.

The figure—a cruel parody of a priest, I thought—continued chanting in what sounded like Latin. My mind refused to latch onto the words enough to translate, despite almost having an easier time with that language than Greek, sometimes.

A woman screamed.

I turned—at least, my vantage point changed. This dream didn't give me any substance. I watched a woman in her older twenties, wearing a purple shirt under shredded armor, get dragged forward and thrown to the ground behind the priest. She grunted, chains around her wrists clattering. Someone had taken a razor to her head, but uneven bits of reddish-brown hair still hung around her jaw.

The priest continued chanting like nothing happened. The woman looked around at the two men in dark robes on either side of her, looked at the altar, and nodded.

"Y'know, much as I'd  _love_ to hang around and watch you fail to summon whatever evil little Lovecraftian horror you think you're summoning, I kinda have prior engagements, so—"

They shoved her back down. She cried out. My chest constricted, but I couldn't bypass this dream's restrictions to help her. I just watched hopelessly.

Finally, the chanting concluded. The figure rose, throwing off its hood. It turned. A man with fierce green eyes stared down at her.

"Gwendolyn Bryant," he said. "Former Centurion of the Fifth Cohort. Legacy of Venus. Welcome."

For a while, no one moved. No one even breathed. My mind grasped at straws to try to understand his alien words. Centurion? Cohort? Legacy? Venus?  _What_?

The woman, Gwendolyn, stared up at him. "You're not a random cult, are you?" she asked.

He smiled. "No," he said. "No, we're not."

She gulped. My vantage point changed again. It looked like I was watching from above the altar. "Saturn is gone," she whispered. "Jason—"

He laughed wickedly. " _Oh_ , how adorable. You don't  _really_ believe your silly little consul destroyed the Titan Lord by…what? Kicking his throne over? You're  _adorable._ "

His flunkies chuckled, but they didn't sound like more than an in-person laugh-track.

Gwendolyn shook her head. "Oh, fuck this shit," she muttered. "I'm  _retired_. Please don't tell me he's making a fucking comeback."

The priest smiled and crouched in front of her. "Oh, rest assured," he said. "I swear upon the River Styx itself; his Lord Saturn is  _very_ much gone."

"Then why all the pomp and circumstance?" she demanded. "You're up to something. There another baddie looking to tear down Olympus? Because we're ready."

His smile widened, only growing crueler. "Not for this," he said, leaning close to her face. "You will  _never_ be ready for this."

She leaned away from him. "I'll warn them," she muttered. "You can't keep me forever. I'll escape. I'll go back. You'll have the whole damned Twelfth Legion Fulminata ripping your pretty church to the fucked up apart in a couple weeks, tops."

"So optimistic," he said. "How heartwarming."

He hauled her to her feet by the remainder of her hair. She yelped. She shuffled her feet forward, struggling even as he forced her onto the altar. Again, my view shifted. Now, I stared down at a terrible chasm, dark and filled with horrible memories.

Gwendolyn screamed, as any sane person would. "No!" She fought, trying to throw herself back from the chasm. "No, not—"

"Hush," the priest consoled, stroking her face. She whimpered. "Save your screams for when He has you."

Gwendolyn choked, staring down at the knife glinting from her sternum. The priest gave her one soft shove, and she tumbled into the abyss. I couldn't scream.

The priest licked his knife. "One down," he hummed. "Two to go."

~1~

"Eric!"

My head snapped up, lunging away from Connor's exasperated expression. He looked ready to kill me, probably because I'd stopped moving in the middle of walkway while my mind toiled over my dream a little too much.

"What in  _Hades_ has gotten into you?" he demanded. "Take a vacation to La La Land next week."

I scrambled for a serviceable comeback. Sam took up the slack. "This coming from the guy hosting illegal D & D campaigns in the attic every month?"

Connor sputtered hopelessly. "I—that's—but—"

Sergius squeezed his shoulder and steered him back. "Good one, kid." He smirked at Sam, then resumed our new, antagonistic relationship. "Arena next. Think you can keep up with us sane people, Eric?" But something else burned in his eyes: concern.

I hesitated and tried to, as best I could, communicate the truth with my own, as well. "I'm right behind you idiots."

Connor led me to the rest of the cabin, gathering in the arena with— _fuck me_ —Cabin Six. I couldn't catch a break, could I?

Annabeth and Clarisse were comparing notes on something a few feet from the rest of the campers, though judging by their laughter, it wasn't serious. At least, until Annabeth glanced my direction and sobered. Clarisse noticed. I recognized the glare she fixed me with; the Overprotective Badass was awake and on her way.

I started to panic, but then Sergius cut in front of me, holding a sword. "How about we finish that argument, eh, Eric?" He held his body tensely, but his eyes still shined with the concern I had to admit I was thankful to see today.

I smirked, hopefully without showing my relief. "Let me grab a weapon."

I reached for a spear on the rack, only to hear a familiar "Sword!" from Annabeth. I sighed, pulling up a  _xiphos_ and forcing myself to accept its hindrances.

Sergius didn't waste time starting the fight, though. Clarisse started to call foul, but he'd already brought his own blade down on my head clumsily. ( _The bridge shook. Annabeth screamed in pain. Monsters screamed._ ) I recovered with a tumble back, and Sergius chased me onto the perimeter of the arena.

I caught onto the ruse quickly enough, but there was just one problem: Sergius' violent assault had attracted a crowd.

I tried to tip him off, flicking my eyes their direction. He swept at my legs, and I leapt over the move like we'd rehearsed this. If I hadn't been consciously nerfing my every skill with a sword, I would have already won; Sergius wasn't a swordsman, that was for sure. He could hold his own for a little while against most, but he didn't put me through my paces like his late-brother had.

However, in that moment, while I pretended to suck with a sword, and he pretended to want me dead? I could  _also_ pretend I was twelve and fighting a blond supermodel again.

"Go, Sergius!" one of his siblings cheered. "Kick his ass!"

"Language!" I shouted, ducking a slash at my head that maybe felt a little too real. I resisted the urge to laugh. The audience did it for me, anyway.

"Get on with it!" Sergius called back to the others. "I've got this!" He fixed his attention on me, eyes twinkling. "Shall we take this outside?"

I smirked. "Bring it." I held Sergius' gaze, blocked a slash, turned, and sprinted away as fast as my feet could carry me.

The wind ripped at my cheeks, but I didn't care, feeling lighter than the air for the first time in longer than I cared to think about. People cried out in alarm as Sergius gave chase, and I'd been using my  _brain_ , I would have realized our enthusiasm didn't support our charade. It didn't matter in those minutes, trading blows as we danced around the camp like a couple hopeless delinquents—just like before.

Because I had Luke back, and  _dammit_ , I was  _alive._

We sprinted past the archery range, Chiron teaching a class. He called off the people giving chase to  _Sergius_ , probably paranoid I'd kill him out of sight or something, but I ignored them. Sparks flew between our swords and we danced apart again. My chest hummed with adreanline. My entire body buzzed. I couldn't kill the smile tearing my face open.

And then, in small alcove between new cabins Sergius had chased me to, the moment ended. He threw down his sword, panting and laughing.

" _Whoo_ ," he wheezed, holding up a hand. "Now  _that_ was a damn good fight."

I clasped his hand, gasping. "Damn straight." I kicked back against the wall. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Speaking of." He pointed at me. "You had a dream last night that freaked you out. Any chance it was—"

"I don't think so," I said quickly. Sergius looked dubious. I sunk to the ground, fingers running through the vestiges of my hair. "So…okay _, maybe_ , but…"

Sergius crouched in front of me. "Spill."

So I did, recapping as much as I was comfortable with. I left out the part where I knew what the sacrifice had been for, and even the part about the Pit, which would probably bite me in the ass later, but I couldn't go there. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

Sergius looked as troubled as I felt. "You're sure the guy said Venus? And then—"

"Killed her," I confirmed, nodding. "Gwendolyn. He said her name was Gwendolyn."

"Shit."

I nodded some more.

"So…you said…okay. So walk me through it one more time."

I stared at him. "Seriously? What good does that do?"

Sergius arched an eyebrow. "It makes sure I don't bullshit any facts you need answered by the experts when I pretend  _I_ had this dream tomorrow morning."

I blinked, stared at him, and smiled. I carefully schooled him on the dream twice more, a fragile spark of hope daring to ignite in my chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Below is an excerpt from Death Is Not So Different from Love:
> 
> What comes after war?
> 
> Over and over again, this thought plays through my mind as dozens of funeral pyres lick the heavens with their heat, beautifully decorated shrouds blackening in chunks as the memories of those they represent consume them. I lead the attendees in an Ancient Greek hymn of memorial, although we enchant it numbly, our spirits hovering in limbo with the fallen, yet our breaths still mingling in the atmosphere with other inhabitants of the living world.
> 
> None of us truly feel alive, I know. The grief, so deep that it permeates the valley thicker than the curtain of death from which it spawned permeates Manhattan, separates our consciousnesses from the triumph we should feel. Yet I also know, as they relearn the ways of vivaciousness, I will continue to wander, a mere shade among them, until I escape somewhere else. They will remember to thrive. I will only endure.
> 
> No one moves until every shroud is reduced completely to ash. When the embers have lost their glow, our procession shambles-as corpses shamble to my will-toward the woods. The debris of Zeus' Fist no longer resides over the dormant entrance of the ancient hellscape of Daedalus' Labyrinth, replaced by glossy obsidian, matte carvings etched deep into its facade.
> 
> Θυμηθείτε τους ήρωες που έβαλαν τη ζωή τους με γενναιότητα. Οι αναμνήσεις σας δεν θα εξασθενίσουν ποτέ.
> 
> Its English translation burns in my thoughts: Remember the heroes who laid down their lives with bravery. Your memories will never fade.
> 
> I personally etched the first into the stone, and even now, it still summons icy tears to the corners of my eyes. I do not suppress them. No one stands impassive before this memorial.
> 
> Bianca di Angelo
> 
> The second name, directly underneath my lost sister's, was carved with the neat handwriting of her surviving friends, although its sight ignites a boiling hatred in my gut at the memory of the woman who stole my family from me with promises of immortality that never came to be.
> 
> Zoe Nightshade
> 
> Dozens more names surround those, likewise immortalized by the hands of their surviving loved ones.
> 
> Lee Fletcher
> 
> Castor McGuire
> 
> Charles Beckendorf | Silena Beauregard
> 
> Micheal Yew
> 
> Ethan Nakumara
> 
> On and on, the names continue. Many, I do not recognize, belonging to fallen Hunters of Artemis or deceased traitors I never met, recognized by their friends, accepted into the fold only after they pledged allegiance to Olympus upon the Styx. Only one dead traitor does not find his name upon the slab.
> 
> Then, beneath them all, each letter in the different handwriting of his many grief-stricken loved ones, there is another name, larger than the others, a wave curving around its end like an ornate period. The end of our grief. The highest of it. The "a" looks as it does on Bianca's name.
> 
> Perseus Jackson


	20. I Get a New Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there.
> 
> So, Death Is Not so Different from Love is officially posted to up to Part 1.6. Please do me a favor and give it a read? If you like it—and if you don't; constructive criticism is my favorite thing—I would appreciate if you guys could drop a couple reviews on it. Here, too, if you wouldn't mind. I usually wouldn't worry about it, but I've gotten a few reviews from people saying they went out on a limb to read this because they judge what to read based on its number of reviews. Even if it's really minimal, like "cool chapter!" or something, I would appreciate this story getting the chance to spread a little more. I've worked very hard on flushing out this whole universe and giving you guys the best story I can.
> 
> Thank you so much, and I understand if not. Although that request doesn't apply to the people who just send in pointless, hurtful comments. Constructive criticism with helpful advice for how to improve is one thing; "you're a dumbass bitch who can't write" is not. Nasty reviews will be deleted—especially if the review itself was written by someone who doesn't know what they're talking about. Trust me. I can tell.
> 
> However, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of you are angels. I'm happy to know you're reading my stuff regardless.
> 
> And without further ado, the twentieth chapter, holy crap:

Chapter Twenty: I Get a New Father

THE DRAGON ATTACKED AGAIN THAT DAY, and I still don't what I would have done without Sergius, who took one look at my horrified expression before flinging himself in front of one of Clarisse's trigger-happy brothers, hauling a bazooka, and prevented a tragedy almost equal to Beckendorf's loss in the war.

It didn't miss my notice that the automaton's eyes were much dimmer than I remembered them being last time. A vice of concern tightened itself around my heart. I couldn't fail Beckendorf's legacy the way I'd failed him. We needed that brother of his, and we needed him  _now_.

Sergius frowned at my expression before his siblings closed around him, but I hovered along the sidelines of the thickening crowd, trying to resist the urge to vomit. My brain jumped around from thought to thought, none of them good. How many weeks until the poison sent in again? Was Sam getting along with her peers? Was I being a bad caretaker for her, not noticing if she was having trouble? Did Annabeth and Nico suspect anything about me? Was dragging Sergius into my mess the right call? Maybe I should have just left an anonymous note for his siblings, let them know something was wrong with him, instead of rushing in like a reckless hero, blowing my cover, and sucking him into the world's worst mythological noir.

"I know that look."

I spun sideways, overbalancing backward and catching myself with a mild stagger. Nico watched me with an unreadable expression, thumbs tucked away in the pockets of his black skinny jeans. Underneath his fitted aviator jacket—an accessory I once deemed the chief reason I couldn't be intimidated by the morose, creepy eleven-year-old we found in the labyrinth, because no one whose face partially disappeared behind a mound of fluff could be scary—he wore a plain t-shirt with the silver words  _Straight from Hell_ sewn into the front. His shiny black hair folded into a man bun on the back of his head, replacing the jacket as the main reason I couldn't be afraid of him. On the side of his neck, I noticed a small, black tattoo I hadn't seen before, peeking out from under his collar: a notched bow over…a trident.

My world careened to a stop. The bow had to be for Bianca—his older sister, the fallen Huntress I couldn't save. Which meant the trident…

Oh gods.

Nico reached up to touch the side of his neck. "What?" He tried to crane his head to look where I was staring. "Eric?"

I snapped my head back to glare at him. "What do you want, di Angelo?" Did my voice sound as wrecked as my soul felt?

He eyed him uneasily for a while. "You're spiraling." It wasn't a question, which only made the sentence that much more confusing.

I knitted my eyebrows together. "What? What the hell does—?"

"It means you're letting yourself get caught up on thoughts that are negatively affecting your psyche," he explained. "Obsessing over past traumas and failures. Or maybe just ascribing failures to current things by over-analyzing them."

"That a shrink-y term?" I clenched my fist. Hadn't we solved this? When had Nico put his fatal flaw aside? I pissed him off. I insulted Pollux.  _What the fuck was he doing?_

"More colloquial," he admitted. He hesitated a moment. "I know you're the one who told Sergius it was okay to come out."

The world hadn't entirely  _restarted_ after I saw that trident tattoo, but what momentum it found again ground to such a fierce halt, it pitched over. "Excuse me?"

"I talked to him after he admitted to his behaviors," he said. "He tried to tell me he'd just hit his rock bottom and decided he needed help, but I know what rock bottom looks like in people. I've seen it before. It didn't make sense to me why he wouldn't tell everyone who helped him until you turned up late to the party and went out of your way to pick a fight so much—and he backed you up."

"That's not—"

"Eric, I understand feeling like you have to chase people away," Nico told me. His tone had softened now, too understanding, too warm. I felt the sea churn. "You're not the first person here who acts like an asshole because he doesn't know how to show people the parts of him that aren't pretty. I can guess your life experience tells you that's just about the only way  _to_ live, and I know that because mine taught me the same thing. Take it from someone who's been where you're at—there are other options."

"Really?" It came out a disbelieving, cynical, bitter hiss, imbued with such malcontent Nico stepped back. His eyes flashed, and I wondered how far I'd have to have fallen to scare the son of Hades.

"Eric—"

"You know  _shit_ ," I told him, hand shaking violently at my side. "You think you're so much better than me 'cuz you're  _good_ now?" I couldn't contain the laugh that ripped its way past my lips. "Like…what? You flirted with the dark side a bit, realized you didn't want to live that way anymore? And I can do it too, right?"

Nico shook his head, almost like he couldn't understand me. "Eric, it's not—"

"But it  _is_ ," I spat. My thoughts roared, a dizzying din that wasn't entirely my own, and I lunged forward to snatch the front of his shirt in my hand.  _Straight from Hell_. I should have been the one wearing that. "You know  _shit_ , di Angelo, you hear me? Don't tell me you know anything more 'til you've walked  _three feet_ in my shoes. Don't tell me you can save my soul until you've saved your own living in  _my_ hell."

Nico stared at me for a while. "Fuck," he breathed. "Who hurt you?"

I spared him a menacing, dark smirk, but said nothing.

Nico pried my fingers away from his shirt, stepping back to fix it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple people take notice of our standoff. Nico did, too. He locked gazes with me, almost as though pleading with me—but it was darker than that. For the first time, I suspected Nico and I saw eye-to-eye  _just_ enough. Not enough for him to figure out my real secrets, but enough not to come from two entirely different worlds.

"This is your last chance, Eric," he said. "This is the last time I play nice. If you don't take my offer now, I'll have to assume you're a dangerous variable. I'll have to tell the others your secret."

My heart stuttered to a stop. "What?"

He smiled. "Yeah, thought so. I'm the son of Hades, Eric." He shook his head. "Did you really think you could hide it from me?"

"Everything good here?" Pollux asked, resting a protective hand on his boyfriend's shoulder.

"We're fine, Pollux." Nico turned to peck his lips gently. Pollux looked surprised. "Let's get to that date, shall we?"

Pollux didn't look sure, but Nico steered him away toward Cabin Thirteen. I watched them go, body tingly and cold, before forging into the woods as quickly as I could, dragon be damned.

* * *

"You're  _sure_?" I insisted.

"This doesn't negate the danger, Percy," Hades reminded me, tone stern yet warm with understanding as he reached forward to cup the sides of my face. "Knowing you're an escaped soul eliminates several possibilities. You cannot underestimate my son's intelligence."

"I'm  _not_ ," I said, tearing away and resting a hand on a tree. It turned into a dryad, who kicked me in the shin and disappeared in a shower of leaves. I brushed them off my front with a sigh.

Hades had anticipated my summons this time, greeting me in the first available clearing far enough away from camp to be safe. He didn't waste a moment assuring me Nico had only sensed that I'd escaped from the Underworld, nothing more.

"No spirit in the Underworld will deny my son answers," Hades told me. "If he asks them what they know about you, there are those—"

"Then don't let him." The words tumbled out before I could think about them.

"Nico is a very curious soul, nephew," Hades pointed out. "Forbidding him never did prevent any—"

"I didn't mean  _forbid him_." I turned to him. "I meant tell him he's looking in the wrong place."

If possible, Hades' alabaster complexion washed even paler. "No," he said. "No, I will not jeopardize my relationship with my son any further—"

"Will he thank you if Camp Half-Blood burns to the ground?" I demanded. "Will he still be grateful to his loving father if his father refused to lie for  _just_ long enough to save dozens of lives?"

"Do you hear yourself?" Hades shook his head. "No. Hera's machinations have done more than enough. I won't let you abandon your values to—"

"What  _values_ , Uncle?" It came out louder than I meant it to. A bird shot into the air from a nearby branch. "You're talking about a boy's morality—a boy who's been dead for too long to waste time on  _right and wrong_."

" _I won't lie to my son_."

"Since when?!" The creek exploded toward us. If anyone else had been brave enough to chance the woods at that moment, everything would have crumbled apart around my ears. Hades stood before me, soaked and horrified. "You're a  _god_ , dammit. You're the god everyone says is the  _most_ calculative, the  _most_ cunning, the  _most_ untrustworthy—"

"All propaganda!" he protested. "All lies from my siblings to—"

"But it's  _not_." I stepped toward him. Droplets of water vapor hardened into ice, crashing to the ground around us. "Your history is colored by your mistakes, Uncle. It's colored by your roots—the darkness. The manipulation. Or need I remind you Persephone only married you because you kidnapped her and starved her until she ate a pomegranate?"

Hades' eyes flashed. "Mind your tongue, nephew," he snarled. "You know—"

"Blame Zeus all you want, Lord Hades," I said, "but  _he_ didn't tear a chasm in the ground to abduct  _his_ daughter into  _your_ kingdom."

"I love my wife!"

" _Then why did you have two children with a mortal woman_?"

Hades raised his hand above his head. Suddenly, he disappeared, replaced by a portly man who reeked of cigars and booze and sweat. I screamed, throwing myself to the dirt with my arms closed over my head, shaking.

Nothing happened for a while. When I felt a hand on my arm, it was gentle, though too cool to mistake for human. I lifted my head to meet Hades' apologetic, dark eyes.

He sighed heavily, deflating into a much less imposing figure when he did. "Persephone leaves me for half of every year," he reminded me. "And my heart never learned when to stop loving."

I uncoiled my body, resting back with my knee in front of me. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't even know what I'm saying half the time, anymore. Yesterday, Sergius—"

"I know." He smiled. "You almost scared that poor boy all the way to DOA Recording Studios."

"You're not funny."

Hades smoothed my hair. "As much as I wish you were of my blood and chose revenge over nobility…I know it wouldn't be in your nature." His eyes ached as much as the pit in my chest that never quite filled. "Neither would hiding in my kingdom. And as much as it pains me to deceive Nico again, after  _finally_ redeeming myself in his eyes…I never could have done that without your help."

I faltered.

"If you truly believe some careful, well-placed untruths are best…then that is what I will do." He eased me into his embrace. I relaxed against his chest, letting my head rise and fall as he took his breaths.

"I love you, Uncle," I murmured.

Hades chuckled quietly. "I love you, too." He rubbed my back. "I wish I could claim you as my own a little more every day. I think Nico would like to have you for a brother."

I smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice."

Eventually, I fell asleep against his chest. I woke on my bunk in Cabin Eleven with an envelope on my chest. I opened it to a very cheesy card with dancing skeletons on it. It had the words "Happy ~~Halloween~~  Late Birthday, Son" on it.

I broke into a stupid smile and tucked it under my pillow. So what if my biological father was the Lord of the Seas?

I had all the family I needed—straight from hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear God, that turned painfully, teeth-achingly sweet. Fuck it. This story needs some good, old-fashioned family fluff.
> 
> You can pry the Found Family trope from my cold, dead fingers.


	21. I'm Still Lord of the Bathroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, guys, never wish to "write like ___." You have your own voice, your own style that is just as valid and beautiful as anyone else. All you have to do is refine your skills in your own way in your own time. If you want to write, practice. Read as much as you can get your hands on. Not just quality writing—reading stuff that might not be literary gold has its own merits, especially if you learn to identify the parts that didn't work out for you. Find your own story you want to tell, then tell it however you need to tell it. You are valid. You have a brilliant mind you deserve to share with the world, and if the world isn't ready for it, it will learn.
> 
> If any of you have stories on here—or somewhere else—you're really proud of, let me know. I'll try to give them a read and leave my best review, full of constructive criticism I intend to help you improve—with compliments, because that's exactly what constructive criticism is. I might be less helpful if it's from a fandom I'm not familiar with, but if you really want my opinion, I'll look up as much as I need to. I want to help and encourage you guys, trust me. I had a couple really good people in my formative years who fostered my love of writing, and it's paid off.
> 
> Also, if you want epic music (and a cool story), there's a video by Koolulam on youtube where a choir covers "Believer" by Imagine Dragons. The full name of the video looks like this:
> 
> "Koolulam | Believer – Imagine Dragons | Galgalatz | Dec. 10th, 2017"

SERGIUS DESERVED AN OSCAR FOR THE SHOW HE PUT ON THE MORNING, his frantic screams and thrashing limbs sending the entire cabin into its own frenzy, trying to quell his fit with comforting words and soothing touches. When he lurched awake, even I wanted to believe the bleary quality in his eyes as he stared at Travis, shaking his head with his lips  _just_ parted, trapped between wakefulness and sleep.

I pulled tennis shoes on a few feet away, feigning disinterest while I lent the meeting an ear.

"Serge, talk to me, bro," Travis pleaded, eyes swimming with concern. Connor's impish features were also drawn together, blurring the few facial details that set them apart as anything but identical twins. "You're freaking us out."

Sergius ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the bed. "It…" He shook his head. "Would you call me crazy if I told you…if I told you it might be one of  _those_ dreams?"

Travis and Connor exchanged a nervous look. Connor reached out to squeeze Sergius' shoulder encouragingly. "You've got your first session with Nico today, right?" Sergius nodded. "Run it by him. We've been in peacetime for a while, but…you can never be too careful."

Travis and Connor pushed up and left Sergius to get changed. He glanced toward me with the slightest inclination of his head, as if to say,  _Operation When Will the World Stop Trying to End is underway._  I flashed him the tiniest, most grateful smile I could as I yanked on my shoelaces and launched out the front door.

* * *

 

I resisted breakfast. The prospect of forcing food into my stomach, churning worse than the sea at storm, was enough to send me running to the bathroom. Still, Sam’s pout was my greatest weakness, so I allowed her to drag me to Table Eleven, setting a plate of hash browns in front of me. I hadn’t asked for them. I hadn’t heard anyone _else_ ask for them, either, but here they were.

I managed two bites before my internal organs organized a revolt. Coincidentally, the mild breakfast food turned revolt _ing_.

I watched everyone gorge themselves for as long as I could before my great constitution failed me. I pushed up, charging behind a pillar and forfeiting what little I'd choked down my gullet to the grass.

I heard footsteps and thanked just about everything I could that the only evidence of my unease were liquids. A flick of my wrist, and the bile and chocolate milk stain in the mud vanished, leaving behind a very faint stench that, when Sabina Lamon, Will's youngest sister, arrived, she only wrinkled her nose in confusion and let me go after a few disgruntled words farewell.

I spied a clock through the window of the Hecate cabin. 8:15. Sergius' appointment with Nico was at noon.

I jogged around camp—from Half-Blood Hill all the way around the perimeter, back to my starting position, where I tossed Peleus a handful of berries—seventeen times. The first person I saw, I asked for the time between greedy gulps of air.

9:03. I really needed to run slower.

There were major drawbacks to painting myself as the least likable person in the entire valley; namely, I had no one to pass the time with when my anxiety threatened to choke me to death.

I took to pacing the length of the valley instead, ordering myself not to neurotically check the time until I'd at least completed three laps. It tested my resolve more than the very fires of hell.

At least, until I passed the arena on my second lap and heard a familiar, high-pitched whistle from the water fountain.

"Eric!"

I glanced over to find Clarisse in a muscle shirt, her many colored tattoos on display while she twirled her spear around. Little sparks of electricity jumped off the tip. I flashed back to its prototype, the one I'd broken in a burst of energy when she sicced her entire cabin on me when I was twelve.

"What do you want, la Rue?" I demanded.

Clarisse pulled her bandanna off her head to wipe away beads of sweat from her forehead and chest. I blinked. Was  _that_ why she always wore that thing? It felt too practical for my childhood nemesis.

"You're putting the kids on edge," she told me, waving toward a cluster of younger campers drilling together. "Chill."

I rolled my shoulders. "What? If they're anxious, it's not like—"

"Drop the bullshit," she snapped. Clarisse stabbed her thumb and middle finger into the corners of her mouth, giving another sharp whistle. A spear arced through the air. She caught it without breaking eye contact, only to toss it to me. I fumbled in surprise. "Now you can continue angsting like a teenage girl,  _or_ you can show me how you fare with that thing against a veteran." She spun Maimer again, an unnecessary flourish, and buried it in the dirt.

I looked down at the spear in my hand. Up at Clarisse. Down at the spear. Around at the gawking onlookers anticipating my response. I thought about the time. I thought about the fact Sergius wouldn't even have his appointment with Nico for a couple hours yet. I thought about how badly I needed to feel my blood pump through my limbs again.

I met Clarisse's eyes. "You're on."

Goddamn Travis and Connor had baskets getting passed around for collections. They posted a chalkboard on a convenient bench.

_ODDS_

_Eric: 9/1_

_Clarisse: 1/9_

I internalized a groan. It took me two years the first time before the Stolls started pools on my fights. Granted, those odds had been much more evenly distributed between the two sides for the most part, only slanting in favor of one party of the other if someone appeared the winner in the resulting duel. This felt less like Eric had earned respect enough to warrant a premature spectacle to be made of his skills and more like the camp wanted to see Clarisse give me a professional smack down, and also wanted to relish my humiliation in hard gold while they were at it.

Gods, I loved this place.

Clarisse stretched, punching the air and twisting this way and that. I knew I had to look as arrogant as possible, so I didn't bother, even though experience told me I would end up regretting that soon enough.

"What in the name of—what are you people doing here?" I heard Annabeth demand of the crowd, shouldering through. I sat myself on a bench, watching the rabble. "Oh, for the love of Olympus! No! Travis, we have been  _over this_! You cannot—she will  _literally kill him_! Travis!"

A loud, impish guffaw tore through the crowd as Annabeth's ponytail bounced after the blur of orange whisking past. The crowd played keep-away with the son of Hermes.

"Hey."

I turned to see Sergius, whose eyes flicked around uneasily. I frowned. "Hi?" I forgot my persona for a moment, too confused by his breach of  _very good_ form to steal this chat.

"I haven't had the session yet," he told me in answer to the question I hadn't even realized I was asking. "But…look, I'm betting on you."

I blinked. "That…is a very stupid idea." I motioned toward the chalkboard. "You're gonna lose."

"One drachma," he said. "You win, though…I make nine."

I frowned. "I mean…yeah? I'm not a big gambler, but I know basic odds."

He looked gravely at me. "Jake already agreed to melt them down for me. Turn them into whatever. And I did my research. I turn those into a jeweler, it's worth thousands of dollars."

I nodded slowly. "See, nothing you've said yet is anything I don't already know, Serge."

He locked eyes with me. "Do you how much transitioning costs?"

The light bulb went off in my brain. I shook my head dumbly. "Wait. But…your siblings would pool their winnings to help you regardless. You don't have to—"

"I'm not taking their charity," Sergius snapped. "Either I work the money together on my own or I don't transition. That's that."

I wanted to argue. He didn't need to take the high road here. He had a sprawling family of people who'd stop at nothing to see him happy and content in his own skin. Camp Half-Blood would tear itself apart raising the funds to pay for his hormones and any surgeries he wanted to get. Chiron would double strawberry output. Cabin Eleven would rob a federal bank—and knowing those ingenious misfits, they could pull it off.

But his eyes burned with obstinacy. I knew I couldn't put myself in his shoes, so I imagined my own unique predicament: if I had the option of coming forward to my friends with the truth, and the admission of my mental health.

I didn't have a dismal  _clue_ what mental healthcare cost, but I figured it had to be more than the wellness visits my mother scraped together pennies to pay for back before we had the luxury of insurance, when my schools demanded everything be in order. I had a vague grasp on what went  _into_ treating something like psychosis; expensive medicines I couldn't fathom the price-point on, hospital stays. Thousands upon thousands of dollars, just to get healthy.

And if I, Percy Jackson, walked up to a room full of Chiron, Annabeth, Nico—everyone from my past I loved, most of them who loved me—tomorrow to tell them all about my ordeals in hell itself, my deteriorating sanity, they wouldn't hesitate to pull together every dime they could to get me help. I'd be golden—even if it put camp in debt.

And I wouldn't do it. I'd insist on making ends meet on my own—a dozen jobs, piled on top of each other, like my mother had in my youth. A crazy investment.

Or a bet on a fight at Camp Half-Blood, one rigged from the start, where if the loser lost like they projected, I'd barely lose anything. And if they won…well.

I locked eyes with Sergius. "I'll do my best," I promised.

( _"You promised you would protect her."_ )

Sergius let the bewildered crowd absorb him, some of his siblings trying to hold him still long enough to talk some sense into him. Their furtive whispers didn't even carry over the general din, but I could make educated guesses.  _"Are you insane? Eric's going to use this against you! He's a psychopath!" "You can't trust that motherfucker. Clarisse would throw the fight if you asked her. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. But that's better than Eric the Shifty!"_

I ignored them, eyeing Clarisse as she stretched, refueled on Gatorade, and shrugged off the enthusiastic encouragements of her siblings, huddled on her side of the arena. Everyone allowed us all the room in the world to kill each other, and while I could have gone deaf on the cheers for Clarisse from excited spectators, I couldn't hear a single person cheer  _me_ on, not even Sergius. I suspected Travis and Connor had left Sam out of this little escapade, giving her something else to do well away from the commotion. I thanked them in my mind.

It proved physically painful to plan ahead. Even in The Battle of Manhattan, when I had to organize a defense of the city  _before_ it was swarmed with the legions of the grisly, I listened more to Annabeth's advice than anything else. I barely made any decision without receiving  _something_ in the way of approval from her.

Except this time, I didn't have a brilliant strategist to veto my bad ideas. Sure, the stakes were a lot lower here—unless they were a  _lot_ higher.

Why do I always do this to myself? I thought dejectedly as Clarisse performed the showiest intimidation maneuver I'd ever seen, flipping through the air and stabbing her spear into the ground to shoot a bolt of electricity straight up. Annabeth once accused me of deliberately making things harder on myself, which I had vehemently argued against. I thought my notoriously shitty luck came from The Fates hating me, but now, I had to ask myself how true that was.

If nothing else, I sure liked making promises I had almost no way of keeping.

Okay, I told myself. If you're gonna do this, you've gotta do it right. Think.

I twisted this way and that, tugging my arms above my head and stretching to look as natural as possible. Clarisse had taken to a variety of comical intimidation tactics that wouldn't have worked on me if I didn't already know her fighting prowess—which had to have improved since our teenage years.

If I kept Clarisse on her toes the entire fight, the odds would even out. Sergius would only win a fraction of the promised amount on that board. I also had no illusions about being able to claim a swift victory against her, least of all with a  _spear_. She had every advantage against me here; she had longer, concerted training; she was armed with her preferred weapon, whereas the spear ranked maybe second on my list of "Weapons I Want to Carry If I'm About to Get Pulverized"; and most importantly, she had a crowd of people who wanted her to win. Several of which were Hermes' kids.

So, yeah. I was fucked.

( _Call on us, Lord. Let us serve you._ )

My eye twitched. I told the "sea" to shut up, because I needed helpful ideas.

Sherman Yang, Clarisse's second-in-command and the child of Ares probably worst in my opinion, stepped forward with a pistol raised in the air.

"All right, you two!" he shouted. "When I pull this trigger, you get to beat the ever-loving fuck out of each other to your heart's content! Only rule is nobody dies. It's too much trouble cleaning up. Take your places!"

Clarisse smirked and marched forward, planting her spear at her side. "Do you feel lucky, punk?"

I sneered at her, but my heart was hammering in my chest. Sergius needed me to think of something, and  _now_ , but we were out of time.

"Three!" Sherman shouted.

Annabeth stormed forward. "Clarisse, this is asinine!"

"Two!"

"I'm gonna  _relish_ kicking your ass," I snarled at Clarisse, bringing my spear up to hold it in both hands, if for no other reason than to maintain a  _modicum_ of character.

"Go!" The pistol fired.

Clarisse launched at me like a cheetah. I dove out of the way with a yelp, forcing my heart rate to steady as my palms sweat and my mind tried to convince me she was a hulking monster hellbent on bloodshed. I didn't have a lot of time to recover before she charged me, spear raised to bury it into what might have been my skull, might have been my family jewels—it was hard to tell with my vision splitting between battlefields. I spun the spear above me for it to glance off, tumbling away.

Again, Clarisse bared down on me, showing no mercy. I fell back hard on the defensive, more than a little afraid the "no murder" rule was one-sided. My voices and my PTSD all competed for time in my overtaxed brain.

I'll admit it: Clarisse kicked my ass. She could have won within the first few minutes if she hadn't let me slip away every time, apparently intent on playing with her quarry. No one could have watched that fight and truthfully told you I had a snowball's chance in hell. And after the billionth time she electrocuted me, I wanted to let her have it.

But Sergius needed my help. I couldn't imagine his pain, staring into the mirror every morning, painfully aware of how  _soft_ his face was, how  _girly_. Even the act of using the bathroom had to be hellish for him.

And that's when it hit me.  _The bathroom_.

I fell back hard on retreat, letting my sore, abused muscles give out. I scrambled away from Clarisse as she persistently bore down on me. The crowd parted like the Red Sea with a bloodthirsty daughter of Ares tearing after her target through it. I could still hear the crowd jeering, booing me for running away like a coward.

( _"Even strength has to bow down to wisdom sometimes."_ )

Clarisse was a lot smarter than her father—when she thought she had to be. When she could smell victory like this? When her victim was  _running away_ from her, defiling the name of her cabin by avoiding conflict instead of accepting defeat? She wouldn't hesitate to finish me.

And I was counting on it.

I burst through the doors of the bathroom, trying to sell the act of a guy just trying to get away with his life. Clarisse chased me, only to falter at the doorway.

I glanced back, looking around, and prayed my tone came off trepidatious. "What?" I demanded. "Scared of the john?"

"I've got bad memories," she admitted. I resisted the urge to smirk. It was nice to know the bathroom incident still haunted her dreams. Clarisse stepped inside. "You've got nowhere left to run, Eric. You're finished."

I pulled up my spear, gripping it too tight. "I'm not going down yet."

She chuckled. "I'll give you some credit," she said. "You just don't quit. I hate it."

She lunged at me with the spear.

I dove to the side, redirecting the blow into a sink. The porcelain shattered. Water sprayed everywhere. The onlookers crowded at the doorway groaned.

Clarisse rolled her eyes and charged me again. I ran into a bathroom cubicle, leading her to break the toilet seat. Water leaked out all over the floor and I jumped over the cubicle wall into the next one over.

"Eric, this is just sad!" Clarisse called after me. "Honestly, I thought you'd at least lose with some style!"

She dragged me out of the cubicle and threw me back. I slipped and landed hard on my haunches, wincing. I'd have that bruise for a few weeks. Clarisse hovered in front of me with disappointment shining in her eyes, but no anger. Dammit. My plan hinged on her getting carried away with her temper like she  _always_ did when we were young. Maturity had done her too many favors.

But whether she knew it or not, I was still Percy Jackson—which meant I had a proclivity for pissing Clarisse la Rue the fuck off.

I sneered at her. "Whatever," I growled. "'Least this probably means I'm not your brother. I'd rather just be a crazy mortal than have anything to do with a bunch of steroid-high lackeys who aren't worth more than your standard brick wall in a fight."

Clarisse tensed. "What did you just say, punk?" she hissed.

"You heard me," I taunted, focusing on nudging the puddles of water around us. "Your whole cabin is full of  _rocks_. Wait, no, I take it back." Clarisse's eyes flashed. "That's insulting to the rocks."

Clarisse raised her spear high above her head with a shriek, electricity arcing everywhere as she brought it down toward my head, rules be damned. Revitalized even just a little by the water, I threw my weight backward, out of the way, and her spear buried itself in the tile. I vaulted off a sink to hang from the rafters just in time as the pools of water around her feet sparked and turned on their master.

Clarisse convulsed. I made sure not to do more than stun her; I contained any extraneous current in the water, and a second later, swung forward to kick her in the face. She went sprawling. I flipped through the air and landed a safe distance from the worst of the puddle, scooping up her fallen spear.

I pressed the blunt end to her chest, smirking. "Do you feel lucky, punk?"

If I had still been Percy Jackson, the crowd would have burst into thunderous applause at that taunt, everyone shuffling through the doorframe to congratulate me on what a great fight that was, well done, we always knew you could do it, man. But I wasn't Percy Jackson anymore, a fact made all too apparent by the stunned silence that greeted me from the spectators huddled in the doorway. Money did not start exchanging hands with choruses of cheers and groans in equal measure, people forfeiting their cash over to the winners of the bet. They didn't look contemptuous, sure, but they hadn't recovered from their disbelief enough to look anything at all.

Well, everyone except Sergius, that is, who stood in the doorway with a smile more brilliant than Apollo's most luminescent beams, staring at me with such overwhelming gratitude, it made everything just a little more worth it.

Some things never changed, I thought, as I threw Clarisse's spear aside and marched through the crowd with my chin held high, even though the rejuvenation from the water left me in a rush as soon as I wasn't near the puddles. And by the gods, was I glad they didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, there wasn't a lot of plot there. I just wanted to pit Percy and Clarisse up against one another again, and then the story carried everything away from me until Percy was being The Best Person (TM)again and made even Athena proud with that last bit of sheer brilliance.
> 
> I swear, one more person tries to tell me Percy Jackson is stupid, I'm going to do them serious damage. Annabeth Chase fell in love with him for his unorthodox tactical brilliance, and you can take me to court on this. He's virtually a genius when it really counts.
> 
> I also aimed to make that just a little truer to everybody's characters from the original series. I hope I succeeded. If not, I at least hope it was an enjoyable read.


	22. I Get Handcuffed to a Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple quick things: First off, thank you guys so much for the feedback. It's really encouraging to read everyone's opinions and know a lot of you are very much enjoying this.
> 
> Secondly, there's been a couple slight adjustments to the larger series. For one, a new installment, The Silent Hero, will start going up likely around the time the sequel to The Forgotten Fear does as a companion piece to cover some crucial background needed for latter installments.
> 
> Also, the intermediary trilogy, The Warped Outcome, has been cut out entirely. Instead, The Scarred Hero now consists of four installments. The new breakdown is as follows:
> 
> The Chronicles of Choice Companion Novel(las):
> 
> (1) Death Is Not so Different from Love (Posted and In-Progress)
> 
> (2) It Interferes with Being Nuts (In-Progress)
> 
> (3) The Silent Hero (In-Progress)
> 
> The Scarred Hero Saga:
> 
> (1) The Forgotten Fear (Posted and In-Progress)
> 
> (2) The Fiery Fiends (In-Progress)
> 
> (3) The Siren's Song (In-Progress)
> 
> (4) The Daimon's Dreams (Outline Stage)
> 
> The Voyage of Heroes Saga:
> 
> (1) Destinies Apparent (In-Progress)
> 
> (2) Destinies Unhinged (In-Progress)
> 
> (3) Destinies Revealed (In-Progress)
> 
> (4) Destinies Reconciled (Outline Stage)
> 
> (5) Destinies Realized (Outline Stage)
> 
> One last thing: So, I'm crazy, and I also love the music from "The Lightning Thief Musical." If you guys haven't listened to that soundtrack, I highly recommend it. I got the sudden burst of inspiration to parody the songs "Good Kid," "My Grand Plan," and now I'm working on a parody for "Strong" from it based on The Scarred Hero 'Verse. There are also a few dozen related one-shots bouncing around my skull for this universe. If you guys are interested in another companion piece compiling all of that into one place—one that wouldn't be necessary to understand the events of the main series—let me know. I'll post it if I get even one person saying they're interested, most likely. I'm weird like that.

"HEY! Eric!"

I spun on my heel and started speed-walking away from the sunny son of Apollo jogging after me from across the green. Will Solace hadn't caught me since I left the infirmary weeks ago now; he sure as hell wasn't about to—

Except I'd exhausted myself fighting Clarisse, so the spritely medic had no trouble cutting me off before I even left the omega of cabins in the heart of camp. I recognized his expression a little too well—his disapproving doctor scowl was patented. I'd received it my fair share in my heyday.

"We need to talk," he told me.

"No—"

"Chiron gave me permission to sedate you if you continue avoiding me," Will interrupted casually.

I lurched to a stop. "Bullshit," I said.

He pulled out a syringe full of clear liquid. The needle glinted in the sunlight along with his wicked smile. Since when did Will Solace have a mean streak? "Wanna bet?" he challenged.

I groaned.

~1~

"I  _know_  this is pathetically unnecessary," I intoned, watching in stunned disbelief as Will wrenched my left arm over to where he had a pair of handcuffs dangling from the crosspiece of the metal headboard, closing the open side around my wrist.

He barely acknowledged my comment with a hum, marching over to a file cabinet in the corner of the infirmary, opening a drawer overflowing with manila folders divided by dark green separators. They must have alphabetized in English, because Will traced over them a few dozen times before even narrowing it down to the right section. He plucked one of the folders out after a few minutes with a quiet, overexcited "ah-ha!"

He flipped it open, thumbing through the pages. I took to counting the raised dots on the cream ceiling while I waited.

Will pulled a chair over in front of me and plopped into it—backwards. He turned the folder around to show me two pages of printed  _stuff_ , a mixture of English and Greek that made my eyes burn. "You see the problem here?" he asked.

"You people really need to pick a language?" I shot back easily, reclining on the wall.

" _No_ ," he said, tone clipped. "I was referring to the  _tragic_ lack of handwritten answers to what is a very thorough, critical questionnaire." He flipped the folder closed again, fixing me with his sternest,  _I-am-your-doctor-you-will-do-what-I-tell-you-to_ glower.

I resisted the urge to laugh. That hadn't worked on me when I was fourteen; it wasn't about to start now.

"So…?" I brought a foot up onto the mattress, draping my free arm over it. The grey hoodie covered a forearm I was certain would send Will into a blind panic.

" _So_ , this is your file, Eric!" He threw the file down on the floor. "We don't even have your godsdamned  _birthdate_. We don't even have your  _surname_."

I shrugged. "Sounds like a you problem."

Will didn't appear amused by my nonchalance. "Now you're picking fights with people like  _Clarisse la Rue_ —"

"She started it," I told him, studying the dirt under my fingernails.

"—and you've pissed off your cabinmates so much, they've started a death pool in your honor—"

"How sweet of them."

"—and it doesn't take a doctor to tell you you're seriously ill."

I didn't have a good comeback for that one, so I just took to picking at the fibers of the knee of my jeans, staring into the ether above it.

Will shifted forward earnestly, forearms draped over the back of the chair. "How about we start with that laceration on your face?"

I flinched, my every muscle recoiling. "How about we don't?" I hissed.

"I need to find a way to heal that, Eric," he told me, "and nothing we've tried to date has made a dent. It's obviously not a normal wound, but if it was something like a Keres—"

"Will you drop it?" I met his eyes sharply. Will recoiled at my expression. "Let's suffice to say none of your miracle cures are gonna touch this." I pointed at the scar. "Now can we please get on with it?"

Will hesitated. "It's a sensitive topic, isn't it?"

"Oh, no!" I cried sarcastically, fingers jumping and neck twitching in discomfort. "I love to tell people how I was hideously deformed. It's my favorite conversation starter."

Silence fell over the room. Will looked at a loss of words—or maybe he was just a little too thoughtful. I watched him warily from the corner of my eye.

"You know…" Will pulled his lip into his mouth, gnawing on it. "I'm guessing the only way you're getting rid of that thing—"

"Don't you listen? I  _can't_ —"

"—is with the help of a god." I clamped my mouth shut. Will met my eyes. "One god in particular. If you want, I can talk to my father, try to negotiate for—"

"I don't." Will faltered, looking at me. How much of the pain and trauma was shining in my eyes right now? I wondered. I shook my head clear and stared at the wall. "I don't want you to do me any favors. I don't want you to  _talk to your father_." Apollo's belated apologies overlapped in my head. ( _You don't know what Hera's like, Percy. She insisted it was for the best. You know you're still my favorite hero._ ) "I want you to move on with your stupid life and forget about this thing. Think you can do that, doc?"

His eyes said it all.  _I don't think anyone can forget that if they've seen it._ "Fine," he said. He pulled up my file again. "How old are you?"

"Old enough not to go back to the system ever." I locked my jaw.

Will's eyes flicked up at me. "Seriously? Not even an  _age_? Eric, I understand far more paranoia in people like us than what otherwise be healthy, but this is ridiculous."

I sneered and reclined in the bed again, letting Will ask dozens of questions I refused to answer. In a sick kind of way, I enjoyed watching his patient expression stretch thinner every time I responded with unhelpful sarcasm rather than serviceable information. In another, I hated every second of it.

Until the door opened and a familiar, portly god with a violently colorful Hawaiian shirt strode through it. Will glanced up. "Hello, Mr. D," he greeted. "I'm just…" He looked at me with a pained expression. "…not getting Eric's medical history."

"Yes, yes, how riveting, Weston," Mr. D said, waving his hand dismissively. "That'll be all from you. I want a few words with Ean about respecting his superiors."

The color washed out of Will's face. He glanced between me and Mr. D a few, fearful times. "Uh…Lord Dionysus, I'm sure that's not—"

"Are you arguing with me, Wyatt?" Mr. D's eyes flashed to him. Will paled no less than ten times more. "Leave us."

"He's sorry," Will said quickly. "Right, Eric? You're sorry. Tell the merciful Lord Dionysus  _you're sorry_."

I smiled at him and mockingly tapped my head. "No hablo inglese," I said in what had to be the worst accent in the history of Spanish accents.

Will gulped and shook his head. "It's your funeral." He pushed up and left.

I waited until his footsteps had faded out completely and looked back at Mr. D. "Can I help you?" I asked brightly.

Mr. D whipped a tiny, familiar teardrop vial filled with gold liquid from nowhere. I stared at it. "I'm entrusting this to you, Pacen," he said seriously. I got whiplash from seventeen different directions at once. First off: that was a new  _not_ -name. Secondly: since when did Mr. D sound serious? Thirdly:  _why the ever-loving hell was he giving me the antidote now_?

I guess the last slipped out without my knowing, because Mr. D scoffed. "Because you won't be receiving this from me in a week's time, clearly. I have important business to tend to on that date. This was a convenient time to give it to you."

I still stared at him.

"What?" He thrust it toward me. "I don't have time for this, Perry. Do you want to take this from me, or shall I explain to your father why his son returned to the Pit early?"

I flinched and accepted the vial. It felt like ice in my hand. "Thank you, Mr. D," I told him quickly, "but…" I hesitated. "I don't consider Poseidon my father anymore."

"Oh, please, I know that," Mr. D said, waving his hand dismissively. "Poseidon doesn't deserve the honor of being your father. I was referring to Hades."

I couldn't fight the smile that spread across my face. My chest felt  _bright_. I wanted to laugh from happiness—which was enough of an unusual urge, I had to reevaluate my entire life for a moment. "Thanks," I said.

Mr. D smiled. "Of course." He glanced toward the door. "And that would be Sawyer."

It took me a hot second to figure out who he was talking about. Mr. D vanished without the light show just as Sergius nudged the door open to peek inside. I fought a laugh.

Then I saw the look on Sergius' face. "What's wrong?" I asked urgently.

Sergius looked at me with a frighteningly blank expression. He shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said. "It's—"

" _Sergius_ ," I insisted. He met my eyes, frozen like a deer in the headlights. "How bad?" I couldn't steady my racing heartbeat.

He stared at me for a long, long while. "It's not," he said finally. I'm pretty sure I heard the universe's record scratch at that. "Your dream. I ran it by Nico. He promised me it was some weird nightmare, but it didn't have any bearing on reality. He doesn't even know of a god in any mythology named Venus."

That didn't sound right to me. I searched Sergius' eyes desperately. "Serge, why don't I believe you?" I couldn't keep the fear out of my voice.

"Because you want another crisis to avert," he said plainly. I lurched back. "You want an excuse to be the hero again. I'm sorry, Percy, but you're barking up the wrong tree."

I couldn't believe how harsh he sounded. There was no one here to fool. He even called me by my real name. Had I done something? What was  _wrong_?

I guess I sound my thoughts aloud again, because Sergius hesitated. "I…sorry." His eyes swam with things I wasn't privy to. They were dark. Dangerous. Filled with more pain than one person should have—and bitterness.  _So much bitterness_. Where had I seen that expression before? "Drew just…she got into my head, I guess. Right after my appointment with Nico."

Drew. Right. The bitch who figured out Sergius' gender identity before anyone else did and proceeded to terrorize him with it. That explained his terrible mood—except it still didn't feel right. Something was just  _off_. Why would Sergius lash out like this if it was one bad egg rubbing salt in old wounds?

Then again, I hadn't been born with a vagina. I had no idea how it felt to have someone tell you to be the gender you were born as rather than the one you identify with. It could be nothing more than Sergius reacting in a very human way to a very personal attack.

Still, though. Something didn't  _feel right_.

I searched Sergius' face. "Serge…you'd tell me if there was something more going on, right?"

( _"Ethan. Me. All the unclaimed. Don't let it…don't let it again."_ )

Sergius locked eyes with me. "Of course."

Later, I would realize he had one hand hidden behind his back. That one detail might have changed the course of fate, if I had just noticed it then.

But then again, isn't that how it always goes? Hindsight illuminates all the courses of action not taken, every one of them greener and brighter than the dreary, forbidden path you're already damned to. But Janus is a cruel deity—a creature of confusing tongues, all birthed from the same intent to  _lead astray_ , to  _blind_ to the correct answer. No devils weigh on our shoulders in times of decision; indeed, a god presses against your chest with the demand.

( _Choose._ )

I refused and motioned to the handcuffs. "You mind getting me out of these while you tell me how the session went?"

Sergius broke into a smile. "No prob."

( _Fool._ )


	23. When Does the Nightmare End?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going to be a bit of a doozy. It partly exists to cover my ass from several plot holes I've left for myself so far, and I don't want to rewrite everything again, so…I'm bandaging a couple mistakes a little late. Sorry about that. It also starts clarifying a few things from the past chapter—gives you readers a chance to piece things together before Percy does. Also, there is literally no chronology in this update. Time is a fluid, crazy thing.
> 
> The style was vaguely inspired by "I scream too loud when I speak my mind." by youngjusticewriter on Ao3. It's not exact, but they kinda gave me the inspiration for how to write this.
> 
> A good theme for this chapter is "Hold Me Tight or Don't" by Fall-Out Boy. That song might be triggering, though, so forewarning.

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE?"

Nico di Angelo stood waist-deep in Montauk beach with a canvas sack dangling from his shoulder, weighed down by flat rocks. I watched him reach into it, throwing them across the waves with expert precision as a violent storm darkened overhead. It bore down on the shoreline, approaching too fast to outrun.

~1~

The Nine Muses knew how to entertain a party.

They plucked and pounded on their instruments in a rousing tune. Exhausted demigods found themselves revitalized, dragging significant others, siblings, and best friends onto the mosaic dance-floor to celebrate our victory—and our survival.

Annabeth spun under my arm clumsily. To a casual observer, the two of us might have looked wasted, staggering around the dance-floor without grace—at least, if that casual observer could ignore the splatters of blood and muck on our clothes. We tore off our armor as soon as opportunity presented itself, but the stains of war would stay with us until the day we died.

Not that that day was any time soon, I thought with another delirious laugh, yanking Annabeth back into me. She crashed against my chest, her quiet yelp drowned out in the reverberating sounds of Apollo's elite band. I locked gazes with her eyes, staring up at me like molten silver, swimming with more intelligence than the shrewdest geniuses throughout history. Her breath tickled hot over my lips. I leaned in.

"Perseus Jackson!"

~2~

"This isn't right," I told Will Solace in the middle of a stereotypical hospital room, all sterile white walls and no personality, as he passed through a hallway somehow located in the center of the room, dressed in a doctor's coat. He turned to me. His name-tag read  _The Real Hero_.

Will Solace looked down at the clipboard in my hands. It was blank until it wasn't. In the middle of the sheet were printed plain, large, simple words:

_Perseus Jackson's allergies include: the truth._

"Isn't it?" Will asked.

"No," I said. "I'm not allergic to the truth."

He tilted his head. "Then why won't you tell it?"

"Because you are."

~3~

A single, forceful pulse from the sewer sent the manhole flying. I could still hear the snarling of monsters just an alley away as I leapt inside, wrenching the cover after me to cover my escape. I splashed down on the sewer—and found a redhead already there.

She jumped to her feet, peculiar celestial bronze dagger at the ready. The hilt curved like an hourglass, fitting strangely in her grip. Her bright red fell in straight clumps down past her shoulders, face smeared with unmentionables. Her shirt looked newer, though still filthy, and her shorts were homemade, the legs frayed like she'd done a messy hack job to jeans.

For several, breathless moments, we stared at each other. My chest threatened to explode from the force of my heartbeats.

Then, hesitantly, she lowered her knife. "You're a half-blood," she said. "Like me."

I prepared to run. "Are you on a quest for Camp Half-Blood?"

She narrowed her eyes at me. "No," she admitted. "I chose the streets. Kronos tried to recruit me a few years ago, but I didn't care enough either way." She hesitated. "Why?"

"Wait." I relaxed, shifting a foot back. "So…you're  _not_ headed for Camp Half-Blood?"

"I don't want it," she snapped. "Now what—?"

I thrust my right hand forward. "Hi," I greeted. "I'm Percy Jackson. You mind taking on a partner-in-survival?"

She grinned and clasped my hand. "Nice to meet you, Percy Jackson," she said. "I'm Francesca Geary."

~4~

They were having a feast around Luke Castellan's body.

His beautiful sun-kissed skin had washed out to a chilling, grayish-white. His brilliant blue eyes had glazed over with death. They hadn't even covered up his bloody side. Plates overflowing with food—buttery potatoes, mouth-watering meat, aromatic vegetables—flew around the room, snatched up by greedy, ravenous hands that dug in without the aid of eating utensils.

I caught Annabeth's wrist. "What are you doing?" I breathed. "You can't dishonor him like this. He's like your brother."

"I'm just doing what my leader did," Annabeth said, yanking her hand away to dig into the feast again.

"What are you talking about?"

Luke's head turned toward me, eyes still glassy. Green smoke billowed from his mouth. "You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend."

~5~

I could see a full moon from the porch. Nico, Annabeth, and Clarisse all sat around on lawn chairs. Nico swung to and fro on the porch swing, Stygian iron sword laying across his lap.

"So, out with it," Clarisse said, spearing a piece of fruit with her knife and bringing it up to her mouth. "What's the emergency meeting for?"

"I've neglected to mention an important piece of information about Eric," Nico told her officially.

Clarisse stopped with a half-eaten piece of cantaloupe in front of her mouth. "What?"

"He told you something?" Annabeth cut in, holding a hand up to Clarisse at her look of enraged incredulity. "When?"

"Well, he didn't," Nico allowed. "I sensed it." He looked between the two of them. "Eric is supposed to be dead."

~6~

"Why did you leave Camp Half-Blood?"

"I had business to tend to," Nico told me as he threw another stone across the restless sea. It skipped into forever. "Why else would I leave?"

"Sergius asked you about the dream," I reminded him. "You told him it was nothing."

Nico looked me straight in the eyes. "Do you believe everything friendly sons of Hermes tell you?"

~7~

"How could you let her do this?" I shrieked, snatching up a delicate Greek vase from the pedestal next to me to throw it at Poseidon's head. He ducked.

"Perseus, please understand—"

Riptide flew through the air next, a wretched scream tearing from my throat. "You could have stopped them!" I yelled. "You could have saved me!"

Hera hummed behind me and I whirled on her. "You misunderstood me, Jackson," she told me with a cruel smile. "Your father didn't fail to save you."

I faltered, turning back to Poseidon. His eyes—sea-green, just like mine—shined with panic. "You…you didn't? Then—"

"Your father's was the final vote to damn you."

~8~

"Like I was saying," Francesca said as she dropped a canned peach into her mouth. "I have connections. Friend of mine'll send me reports every once in a while about what all is happening at Camp Half-Blood, y'know? Especially if there might be someone in my neighborhood looking to drag me kicking and screaming to their safe haven."

My head whipped around to look at her. "What?"

"Yeah." She waggled her fingers with ghost noises. "I have spies everywhere."

"Who?"

She smirked at me. "No one you have to worry about."

~9~

"Why did you leave?"

Luke skipped a stone across the water before turning to me. "You know why," he said. "Because I had to do something."

"There were better ways," I told him. When had I gotten so torn up about Luke's betrayal? I didn't care when I was twelve. What changed? "You have to fix the system from inside the system that already exists. You didn't have to leave us."

"Why do you care?" He skipped another stone across the water.

"Because I need you."

Luke locked eyes with me. "I don't love you, Percy."

"I don't need you to love me," I found myself saying desperately. "I just need you to be here. I need your help. I don't know how to do this without you."

But I was talking to a slab of obsidian rock.

~10~

Nico stood in front of a black crypt built into the side of a hill. I walked up to him. There was a girl at my side, but I didn't really look at her, studying him carefully.

Nico turned to me, blinking harshly. His lips moved, but they made no sound.

~11~

"Percy," Francesca said, sidling closer to me in the safe house. "Would you tell me I was just batshit crazy if I told you I might be falling in love with you?"

I looked at me and beamed. "Not at all."

She leaned in to kiss me, but her hair shortened radically and turned blond. Her jaw squared off. Her eyes turned blue. A scar curved down her cheek.

Luke looked at me and breathed green smoke into my face. "You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend."

~12~

It was my fifteenth birthday party. Poseidon stood in front of me. He handed me a green envelope with a trident stamped over the lip.

"Forgive me, son."

"I'm not your son anymore."

~13~

"Why did you leave?"

Sergius threw the bag of stones into the ocean and it dragged me under the waves.

~14~

I gasped awake in a cold sweat. Clutched against my chest was a familiar green envelope. A trident stared back at me.

Shakily, I pried the envelope open. I pulled out the letter and choked on a laugh.

_BRACE YOURSELF_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is literally so much to unpack in that chapter. It's a doozy. You guys are free to volunteer your theories about it. I mean, there are a couple things I'm not even trying to disguise.
> 
> Pay special attention to Emily's (Francesca's) second section (section 8). Also, yes: I believe the head-canon floating around that Percy had an unconscious crush of his own on Luke before his betrayal, and he reacted the way he did because his sexual awakening literally tried to kill him. Percy Jackson is bi-romantic. You can take me to court on this.


	24. Sam Is Adorable (Always)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I didn't know I still needed this disclaimer for my stories in the twenty-first century, yet here we are.
> 
> I AM A LIVING, BREATHING RAINBOW. I am hella bi-romantic asexual. I LIVE FOR APPROPRIATE LGBTQ REPRESENTATION IN ENTERTAINMENT. My original work showcases this as well, don't get me wrong; there might sincerely be fewer straight characters in my original fiction than LGBTQ, which isn't accurate to real life in a lot of ways, but I often struggle writing straight people. You're a strange animal to me. Completely and one-hundred percent valid, please do not get me wrong, but…write what you know, you know?
> 
> Also, I was under the impression a place like fanfiction is where people come to write their many headcanons about characters, among other things? Please correct me if I am just miles off, but…isn't the purpose of this for fans to engage with other fans about their ideas about preexisting, inspirational work?
> 
> Also-also, I sincerely relate to Percy in the original series. He's my baby. I'm quite sure he is our baby. So yeah, as an LGBTQ reader a little starved for representation in a lot of the stuff I engage with…yeah. I'm gonna headcanon that Percy isn't the straightest boy in town. Spoiler alert (it's not much of a spoiler, not for anything important): Percy is asexual in this. I fully believe he's ace. I relate to him a lot in that one scene in The Mark of Athena. I'M GONNA WRITE HIM AS ACE.
> 
> If that "ruins the story" for any of you, FANTASTIC! Please click away from my work and don't come back. You don't wanna read it? Great! I don't wanna hear about it, so we'll get along just splendidly.
> 
> As for the rest of you (which I suspect is the majority), I'm sincerely sorry you had to read that little meltdown. Usually, I ignore dumb reviews. I just delete them before they reach the lineup on my stories because I don't wanna look at them, but certain stuff just…riles me. It dawned on me that a mild, brief meltdown here might save me from rage-quitting on this whole thing in the future if I run across another bigot, so I included it. It's been eating at me since I first read the review in question, which none of you will ever have to now. That whole thing was targeted at the small percent of people it applies to. Everyone who's just reading my stuff for good, entertaining work and could soundly care less who's attracted to who in it is more than welcome here. I'm glad to have you. You guys are great. You really light up my days. Please don't be discouraged or stop reading—if you're not here to stir up trouble. I won't tolerate it, and I'm sure there are a whole lot of people who will not thank you if you stick around to leave little love notes that make me want to give up on this story.
> 
> I think I'll shut up and hop back into the story now.

MY DREAMS HAUNTED ME EVERYWHERE I TURNED.

There—a misty apparition, Luke Castellan's disapproving scowl tracing my path in lines of reproachful blue. And there—Nico flicking rocks across the surface of the restless ocean. At breakfast—Luke again, except now a bloated corpse spread out across Table Eleven while his siblings gleefully ate around him.

Nothing could match the horrified scream that ripped from my throat then. I fled before my startled cabin-mates could demand answers.

My nails scraped against my cheeks, skin smarted exquisitely, as my feet pounded into the ground beneath them—a frenetic, consistent beat,  _one-two-four, one-two-four, one-two-four_ —and mindlessly, blindly, I sought out sanctuary. Anywhere. Anything. I just needed somewhere to take a full breath, where steel tendrils didn't coil around my throat, around my lungs, constricting a little at a time until wretched, choked gasps were all that still leaked out.

At some point, my overwhelmed, battered form must have crumpled in the alcove behind one of the cabins, warm and insistent against my back, the only constancy in a sea of unrighteous turmoil. About that time, I suppose that same frame retreated into itself as its harsh gasps urged it to rock and rock and rock, trying to instill the tiniest amount more stability in the unpredictable rapids pulling it along. Jagged fingernails gouged tiny crimson crescents into its scalp. Tears hotter than the molten river through which my worst hell-wrought wounds mended themselves seared down my cheeks. I didn't resist when the ocean from which I once took so much comfort pulled me under, and I began to drown.

Shackles closed around my wrists again. I screamed, scrambling back, trying to escape the torment part of me knew would never lose its grip on me. I sank deeper into the turbulent waves.

"—alm down!" someone pled desperately. "Oh gods, how does Nico do this? Please just take deep breaths. Uh…in for…for…for five? Or is it ten? No, it's seven. Right?  _Fuck_."

"Literally shut up," another—younger, softer, gentle like flower petals—snapped. "You're not helping." There was a presence in front of me now, patient yet unyielding. "Percy, can you focus on my voice? The coolest thing happened at archery yesterday. I want to tell you about it."

Her quiet trills carried on, an animated, quiet story about how silly Titus got whenever he felt showed up. Like, didn't he outgrow temper tantrums eight years ago? Why was she ever friends with that loon?

I blinked sluggishly—once, twice, four times—and the tears cleared. They spilled down my cheeks; their remnants wiped away with the heel of my hand. Sam glowed when she saw my expression clear, waggling her fingers in hello.

"You shouldn't have seen that." My voice was coarse like sandpaper.

She shrugged. "It's okay." It wasn't, but she fitted herself against me anyway. I wrapped my arms around her. My gaze swept around the dark alley, settling on Sergius.

He wilted in guilt, averting his eyes.

"You told me it was nothing," I said. "You told me not to worry about the dream. Then why did Nico book the earliest shadow out of here?"

Sam twisted around, still slotted against me. She shouldn't have been my teddy bear, but I couldn't help but clutch her a little closer on instinct.

Sergius shifted uneasily. He picked at the edge of his binder. When he did that, I could see its outline under his shirt. I resisted the urge to glance down at it.

"Tell the truth," Sam said sternly.

Sergius' eyes flicked up to her. He gnawed on his lip. "Look…Nico seemed a little off the whole session." His words hummed like truth in my ears. "He tried really hard not to let it get in the way, but I could tell he wanted to get somewhere. Maybe he had trouble with his classes this upcoming semester. They're supposed to start soon. All the college kids are gonna leave for those."

I stared through the stall tactics.

Sergius turned his eyes heavenward. "I told you the truth. Nico  _did_ tell me Venus was nobody. I mean, there's the  _planet_ Venus, and that plant thingy, who knows where the kooky scientists came up with that, right?" He chuckled nervously. My stare held firm. He wilted again. "He left as soon as we finished our session. Drew intercepted me with her mind games just before I found you at the infirmary."

I reached inside my pocket and fingered the tiny, smooth vial next to Riptide. "I want to believe you," I said, one arm still wrapped around Sam's midsection. "But you didn't say anything about Nico leaving when I asked the first time. That looks suspicious."

"I know," he confessed. "I just…you're so busy worrying about everyone else on the face of the planet, I thought you'd decide Nico leaving was cause enough to throw our plan out the window and run into gods' know what, swords blazing. I didn't want you to jeopardize the chance you have with Sam playing the hero again."

My eyes flicked up to his, alight. " _Playing_?" The syllables sprayed venom. Sergius recoiled like I'd struck him. "Since when did I ever  _play_?"

"I-I didn't mean it that way," Sergius stammered. "Just that…look, you don't have to do that job anymore, remember? It's, like, two months left. Two months, then you don't even have special powers to  _make_ you a hero, so just—"

"He's not a hero because of his powers," Sam snapped. She tried to launch herself at Sergius, but I held her back. "He's a hero because that's  _who he is._ " A heartbeat passed in silence. " _Bitch_."

Sergius' face flashed with more anguish that I had ever seen, features crumpling one by one until all he had left was dysphoria. My throat constricted.

" _Samantha Foster_." Her name had never sounded so sharp on my tongue. I had never needed to use it for reprimand. She had always earned my praise, my love—but I had to be the adult. I had to be the parent, and that meant cracking the whip when she stepped out of line. That didn't stop me from hating myself when she, too, wilted. "Don't you ever use that language again." I wasn't just talking about profanity. "Apologize."

Sam hugged herself. "But—"

" _Apologize_."

Sam turned back to Sergius, head hung in shame. "I-I'm sorry, Sergius."

Sergius gulped. "That…it's okay, kiddo. You're just…you were right. I was being stupid. You needed to set me straight."

I rubbed Sam's back. "Give us a few minutes, yeah?" I was glad to return to my normal, gentle tones.

Sam jerked her head in an ashamed nod, retreating from the alley. I faced Sergius.

"You're not the first son of Hermes I've befriended, Sergius," I said. He faltered. "You're also not the first to lie to my face."

His face went slack. "Percy, I—"

I shoved to my feet. My knees knocked together. The anxiety attack clung to my skin like leaden slime—filthy, heavy,  _awful_. I wanted to find somewhere no one would find me again to hide. I clenched my fist, setting my jaw against the irrational fear.

"Don't be the second to betray me, too."

I started to walk away, but Sergius called after me. "Wait!"

I turned back to him, stilling when I saw a leather wrap in his hands, pristine, black, and still fuzzy. He unfolded the cloth. Inside, neatly tucked into their holsters, were celestial bronze tools. Namely? A hammer, with a gorgeous leather wrap around the hilt, and a chisel.

"Speaking of former-friends of yours with a couple scary similarities to me." Sergius tried an affable grin.

I stepped forward and touched the metal of the chisel, terrified it would dissolve into yet another fantasy if I did. I looked up to see Luke standing behind Sergius.

"I'll make it up to you, Luke," I told him. "I'll make everything up to you."

Luke vanished. Sergius glanced back where he stood, swallowing. "You know he's dead, right?" he asked.

I chuckled wetly and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

( _Reborn._ )

The word reverberated around my mind. I shut my eyes against it.

( _Reborn_.)

I opened them and looked at Sergius. "We need a plan."

( _You're all mine._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took a while, guys. At first, it refused to cooperate. Then, I happened across this story that just…sundered my soul. And then healed it. And then it just sundered it again. And then it healed.
> 
> Here is where I recommend beautiful, glorious work to you all again—except this one is, remarkably enough, not a Percy Jackson fanfiction.
> 
> I have no idea how many of you follow Thomas Sanders on youtube or know anything about his Sanders' Sides series. I highly recommend it, if you don't. The series from which this writer gleaned inspiration for their characters is a very well-done piece of art, ongoing, funny, and just…heartwarming. However. There is no need to know the original series to understand the contents of what I am about to recommend to you.
> 
> It's called "Powerless" by patentpending on Archive of Our Own under Sanders Sides fanfiction. Honestly speaking, I believe it should be its own, officially published story. They wouldn't have to change much to get it on bookshelves. It includes beautiful, rich storytelling, a flushed-out world that embraces its cliches and awards them a gravitas they didn't used to have. It does not shy from a wonderfully diverse cast, treating them with a remarkable degree of casualness you rarely see in anything. From a banishment to the conventional gender binary with gusto to characters from multiethnic backgrounds whose race is less than a footnote next to their personalities, it's hard to find a single part of it without dynamic players, powerful love stories, and a shrewd reexamination of the superhero cliches we've grown accustomed to. The author also included clear trigger warnings at the beginning of every single chapter.
> 
> Seriously. Please just go read it. Your life will be richer for it. After you read it, feel free to message me with your squeals. I pale excruciatingly to the splendor of that whole story. It achieves levels I can barely aspire to. I beg you. Go read it.
> 
> Bonus: It's totally finished, so no gnawing at the bit for updates.
> 
> Also, obligatory music recommendation of the day: "The Bad Guy" from The Ultimate Storytime.
> 
> Zaijian ("goodbye" in Mandarin Chinese, by the way). Have a great day.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) The phrase “don’t look a gift horse” in the mouth confused me for many years, as I knew the Trojan Horse had been a ruse by the Greeks to ransack Troy and a cursory glance inside its maw might have saved many lives. It turns out the phrase actually originated from the practice of giving people real horses as presents, and the fact you can glean a horse’s age by the shape and protrusion of their teeth. Still, I doubt Percy ever paused long enough to learn that piece of information, and he would be one of the most likely people to think the saying had something to do with the Trojan Horse. I found the aside amusing. That would be your dose of unnecessary information for the day, ladies and gentlemen.


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